


The Gentleman Who Fell

by EarthsickWithoutYou



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Jane Eyre Fusion, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Choking, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, Gothic, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Light Bondage, Lingerie, M/M, Mystery, Referenced past child abuse, Romance, Rough Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 70,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthsickWithoutYou/pseuds/EarthsickWithoutYou
Summary: Jane Eyre AU.  Young teacher Will Graham arrives at Blackstag Hall to tutor Abigail Hobbs, ward of Hannibal Lecter, the seldom-glimpsed, mysterious master of the estate.  Will soon becomes tangled in a slow-blooming romance with his employer, a journey riddled with terrifying surprises at his love's true nature...and eventually his own.
Relationships: Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Jimmy Price/Brian Zeller, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 188
Kudos: 237





	1. Chapter 1

Will had never undertaken such a long journey. It took the better part of two days to traverse the distance from his dour school days in Kirkby Lonsdale, to his new adulthood as a teacher in the Peak District of Derbyshire. And Will had not expected to feel it with this vigorous spark of zest, that he had left such sadness behind along with the powerlessness over his own destiny which characterized his youth. At least now, he was going to see something of the world outside of his aunt’s miserable constrictions upon him, and those that followed at school, arguably worse, though less hurtful as they did not come from those who ought by virtue of familial connection to have cared better for him. If he had been left with a deep feeling of inadequacy in his ability to inspire affection from others through any other means but what he could do for them, Will congratulated himself on having evolved from rather a tempestuous young dreamer to a sensible man prepared to greet life as it would be, not as it should have been.

Still, excitement stirred in him, palpable as the fresh autumn air on his face as he put down the carriage window to take it in, take it all in, breathing in the varying smells of the countryside, sun-warmed damp earth. It unrolled before him like a great green ribbon embodying the mystery of his fate, miles of land mainly composed of emerald fields occupied by pretty and well-kept sheep, the closer they got to his destination. These were the farms around the Blackstag estate, to be sure. In noticing the increasing proximity to his new home, Will’s heart skipped an unexpected beat. It was truly lovely here, brimming with vivacity, best of all the moors -- wild grass and flowers, great tall jagged rocks under bent trees, hunched by the winds of time. There he sensed a certain restless mourning which yet invigorated his spirits. Perhaps it was recognition. What else would he ever be, if not a lonely wanderer?

For so long the carriage had driven steadily up, that it was rather a shock when they began a slow plummet down a sandy trail, at the bottom of which they unearthed the sight of Blackstag Hall like the most stunning subterranean treasure. Situated inground thusly, Blackstag nonetheless stretched valiantly for the stars, who stood out in glorious bright white pinpricks against a deep dark canvas by now. Will got quickly out of the carriage the moment it was safely stopped, and barely heeded the brusque words of farewell from the driver, so transfixed as he was by this place, a medieval fortress, a castle and a fine, noble old estate all at once. 

Made of strong old pale brown and grey brick, Blackstag comprised an enormous manor circled all round by tall towers, windows of stained glass, the larger ones shaped like inverted teardrops, and there was something sacredly unholy about its appearance, looming before him in the night like the surest fate. Soft moss hugged the front facade, the same lush country green as the rolling hills, darker than the faded wheat strewn grass of the moors, more hopeful, a match for the immense grounds and probably the famed gardens behind the estate, of which Will had heard in a letter from Mr. Price, his new employer.

It must be Mr. Price who came to him now, dressed in a modest grey suit, his dark blonde hair also tinged in grey at the corners. Then it occurred to Will that the place was better lit at night than anywhere he had been before. Pretty glass lanterns blazed with gas light, an expense he could not fathom, but the modern contraptions were too useful, and attractive besides, to contradict the classical look of the place. At any rate, Will made a quickly secure determination regarding the stranger, and decided it would be best to appear forthright from the start.

“You must be Mr. Price,” he smiled cordially, putting out his hand, which was firmly shook with a reciprocated look of congeniality from his new acquaintance.

“I am indeed, and you are young Will Graham, the much-awaited teacher for our charming little Abigail. I cannot tell you how pleased we all are to have you with us at last.” Mr. Price glanced down at Will’s one rather woeful traveling bag, the same one he had brought to Wolftrap school upon leaving his aunt’s estate for the last time at the age of ten. 

“Really,” Mr. Price complained rather jovially, casting his eyes skyward. “Zeller! Where exactly do you deign to be other than out front taking the new teacher’s belongs inside?”

In consequence of this fondly exasperated speech, a man, probably in his mid-thirties, and with a neat brown beard but mussed hair atop his head, came hurrying out from the front door, tugging down a short black butler’s jacket and flashing an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, sorry, please excuse the delay, sir,” Zeller winced, although rather jolly about it, much like Price. “I’m afraid I dozed off after cleaning the upstairs curtains.”

“It’s of no inconvenience whatsoever, please don’t trouble yourself,” Will assured him. “In fact, I’m utterly unused to having my things conveyed about by anyone other than myself.”

“Ah! Well, then you deserve a little taste of the aristocratic life,” Zeller winked, occasioning a sigh from his employer as they all walked indoors at last, Will’s battered bag in the servant’s hand.

Every room through which they passed was a fresh source of wonder to Will, who had known of course that Blackstag was among the best-preserved medieval estates in the country, yet found himself unprepared for the majestic luxury of the place, severe but rustic, surprising him with a sense of welcoming. His artistic disposition was truly dazzled; he wanted to sketch every chamber, he wanted to continue improving upon his watercolor skills so as to capture the splash of gold and crimson light which doubtless illuminated the rooms on sunny days.

Of course, he had only come here to be a teacher, little better than a servant in terms of importance or authority to the household, yet it felt like the summit of his happiness, that he was permitted to be here -- nay, that he had been invited! Meant for this place, surely. He would exist daily ensconced in beauty.

When he considered the equal likelihood he might have had to stay on as a teacher at Wolftrap, repeating daily the undeserved penitence of his boyhood, Will knew he was greatly blessed.

And yet, at that time he knew nothing whatsoever of true happiness, and how complicated the version of it that awaited him, how intricate the trap into which he stepped.

“Some people find the house rather grim,” Mr. Price explained as he led Will down a hall lit by yet more lamps mounted to the walls, to a pretty little bedroom which was to be Will’s own. 

“Oh, no, not at all,” Will breathed in carefully controlled joy at seeing his room, “It’s a beautiful estate.”

“Beautiful, to be sure,” chirped Zeller, setting Will’s bag down on the four poster bed laid out in a blue and white floral blanket. “But imposing. I remain convinced Blackstag is haunted.”

“Poppycock,” Jimmy insisted. “What say you to this, young Mr. Graham?”

“Please, call me Will,” he requested, almost rendered uncomfortable by anyone standing on ceremony where he was concerned. A plain country boy such as himself, the product of strict Christian schooling, could hardly lay claim to such elevated respect. Simple respect for his integrity -- that was all he could desire from others. “I do not believe in spirits, yet the place does have a desolate, lonely feel about it. Perhaps I like it even better for that. There is loveliness in what is sad.”

“ _Is_ there?” Zeller inquired, cupping his chin, scratching his beard, clearly dubious.

“That will be all that is required from you, Zeller, except to make our tea and bring it to the sitting room when ready.” Price gave him an authoritative nod, but something softer glistened in his eyes when cast upon the servant.

Making a low bow, Zeller replied, “Of course, Mr. Price, I shall prepare it at once.” And he was smirking; Will was sure he did not imagine it.

“Has Mr. Zeller been the main servant here for long?” Will asked politely as they made their way into the sitting room, where a crackling fire and two large, soft dark chairs awaited.

“Oh, long as ever I’ve been here, and that’s approaching ten years,” said Price.

They sat cradling delicate gold-rimmed teacups, blowing gently on the hot drinks.

“Can you tell me something of the girl who is to be my pupil?” Will inquired, helping himself to a big lavender cookie; it had been such a long journey and his belly sought quick satisfaction. He found the biscuit immediately a vast improvement over the crumbly shingle-like ones he had occasionally -- rarely -- had while at school as a treat. It was buttery-sweet, with chopped almonds nicely complimenting the delicate flavor of lavender petals.

“Indeed, Miss Abigail Hobbs,” Price elaborated. “She is ten years old, raised in France, the ward of Mr. Lecter.”

“And who is Mr. Lecter?” Will asked, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin soon returned to his lap. In his best Sunday suit, he had nonetheless observed that even Mr. Zeller’s attire was in a far better state than his own meager wardrobe, hand-me-downs from older boys at school which he had been given in his teenaged years, and which still fit well enough, though the fabric was dulled by the years of common use.

“My good young man, Mr. Hannibal Lecter is the master of Blackstag Hall.” Price looked upon Will with astonishment. “I thought I had made that clear. You did not think, surely--” with a hand on his heart.

“I did assume that you were the master of the house, and Miss Hobbs your daughter or ward,” Will explained, trying to recall whether a Mr. Lecter had been mentioned in Price’s missive. Yet with his notoriously accurate memory, he could not bring up the name; Price’s hurried, businesslike demeanor, however friendly, indicated it was a likely oversight.

“Ah, dear me, no.” Price laughed. “I am a distant cousin of Mr. Lecter’s, and he keeps me on as housekeeper. Elsewise in the house, we have Mr. Zeller, who you have met, he cares for the house overall and has to function rather awkwardly, though adeptly, as both butler and overseer of housework. A young lady named Chiyoh also resides here, a ward of Mr. Lecter’s Aunt Murasaki. She keeps very much to herself, although you may occasionally encounter her. Mr. Lecter is highly desirous of keeping as small a staff as possible, since he is not fond of a crowded home and is here rarely enough himself that it is hardly necessary.”

“You and Mr. Zeller seem to get on well,” Will could hardly help observing; he was, in spite of his calm, quiet disposition, very fond of observing people in all their myriad quirks and depths.

“Quite, yes; Zeller is a good sort.” Price looked down at the remains of his gingerbread cookie as if deciding how much further he ought to enter into the subject. “Of course, one does not like to consort much with the servants.”

 _Doesn’t one?_ Will kept the sentiment to himself, noticing what an insubstantial veil the class divide appeared to be in shrouding the near-overt flirtation between housekeeper and butler. 

“And Abigail, what can you tell me of her disposition?” Will kept his questions broad and careful so as not to overstep his own place, yet he was fairly bursting with curiosity to know every detail about this fascinating household, tucked away in the picturesque yet melancholy countryside, glimmering in its own unique mysteries.

Price chortled under his breath with an amused grimace. “She’s a sweet girl, but dreadfully spoiled and behind in her education. I’m afraid her mother neglected her learning, neglected to teach her anything beyond using her talent for song and dance to please company. Now, I fear she’s been lonely without a proper guardian for some six months, so one can easily excuse the occasional petulance or temper.”

“Yet you are relieved at my arrival,” Will smiled, his blue eyes sparkling as Price laughed more loudly. 

“Yes, quite so. I confess nature did not make me for a surrogate parent to a little girl who believes herself a deposed French aristocrat.”

Will nodded thoughtfully, still smiling at Price’s good-natured admission, intent within himself to provide Abigail the kindness which he never received during his own education, to show her all she need learn to thrive intellectually, yet without ever dousing her natural light.

“You look so unbothered, Will. Almost as if you were once a free-spirited child yourself, a wild thing.” Price sipped his tea. It was a nicely mutual feeling, that neither of them had experienced pleasant conversation like this with a new companion for quite some time. 

“Well. I suppose I was, once upon a time, quite a reckless little thing.” Will tilted his head slightly, recalling, considering, turning back the tear-stained pages of his memory past painful journal entries of long, grueling days and nights until he came back to his earliest times. “But it did not last long.” 

_Life beat it out of me. My aunt and cousin locked me out from my free spirit, confined me in self-doubt and shame._ Will still felt it, in the ache ever residing in his shoulder from where he had once been grabbed as a child and thrust against his most vehement resistance into the “red room” of his aunt’s home. He felt it in the countless echoes of cruel insults from his schoolmasters and the light scars of the switch which had so often been applied to his small hands until his skin was raw.

“You and Abigail may well be kindred spirits,” Price noted. “And now, since you are calling her Abigail, and I’ve been referring to you by Christian name as well, I really think you might call me Jimmy. If I’m entirely honest, even Zeller -- Brian -- usually calls me that, too. We were trying to impress you by behaving so formally.”

“You did impress me, and yet I’m glad we may address one another in a friendly way.” Will finished his tea and set his napkin back on the side table by his chair, a briefly postponed question creeping back into his ongoing analysis of this new home. 

“Is Mr. Lecter a kind master?” he asked, as nonchalantly as possible. 

Will could not have explained why the very sound of that name, _Mr. Hannibal Lecter_ , had occasioned him an instinctive chill in his bones, and at the same time rendered him hungry with the desire to hear more about his new employer. Odd, to so crave information about a lofty gentleman whom one would probably seldom, if ever, see in person.

Jimmy pondered the question, as if it had not ever occurred to him in the past, to evaluate his cousin and master in this light. “In every way that matters most, yes. He is a very kind master, good to all of us. We want for nothing. On those rare occasions when Mr. Lecter visits in person, he treats us with respect and great consideration. I’ve heard a cross word from him every now and then, but it is often followed soon after by a quiet apology, alluding to his cold and implacably pessimistic disposition. He says it renders him impatient, and then his temper ranges out of bounds.”

“Is he really so entirely negative in his view of the world?” Will fastened his gaze on the fireplace, watching one piece of timber surrendering to an engulfing, wide lick of orange light. 

He found himself feeling slightly flushed about the cheeks and collar, and assumed it must be the influence of the strong blaze before him. Why should he sense that he _knew_ something about this Mr. Lecter? Why should he feel this urgency, almost writhing beneath his skin and nestling in among his bones, insisting that when he met the man, it would be one of the momentous sea changes of his life?

Then he supposed he always had been easily transfixed by a good, deep mystery. It was another odd variation in his otherwise steady, sensible personality, like his dreamy state of mind when he sketched.

“Entirely, and I think it a terrible pity.” Jimmy shook his head. “I believe it must be a consequence of his tragic youth. You see, there was a terrible attack on his parents' estate in Lithuania when Mr. Lecter was a young boy -- I think he was no more than eight years old when it happened. His parents and sister were murdered, and he was thereafter taken in by his aunt and uncle here in England. Robertus and Murasaki now reside in London.”

“That is-- I am so deeply sorry to hear of what occurred. I can hardly imagine…to endure such loss, and in such a violent manner, as a young child...” Will shook his head, genuinely bereft and cut to the quick with empathetic sorrow.

“It is an awful tragedy,” Jimmy concurred gravely. “My cousin really is the best master, and a dashing handsome man besides, a formidable horseman and as clever a conversationalist as one could like, eminently cultured, sophisticated and richly philosophical. But he seems...impossible to satisfy. He does nothing but travel to the most splendid locales, only to return lamenting of his persistent boredom, a soul-heavy disappointment. I’ve often nearly brought myself to suggest he try remaining at home for a longer stretch, as perhaps he may simply lack consistent affectionate company. He has a ward, for example, whom he simply deposited here before fleeing her presence, leaving her on my highly unqualified hands along with more lavish gifts than can really be very good for a girl her age, who has already been immensely spoilt.”

“But you did not recommend a longer respite at Blackstag, and nor did you suggest to Mr. Lecter that he cease in spoiling his ward.” Will spoke with interest, absent of judgement.

“Mmm. One does not like to test boundaries with Mr. Lecter. One tends to remain on the other side of his walls. They seem iron-wrought, you see.”

“Yes,” Will contemplated, folding his hands over his knee. He had the distinct impression that in speaking of Hannibal Lecter, he was opening a new chapter of his own story, a saga with blank pages simply begging to be filled with words which he could not yet fathom. “Yes, I see.”

***

Will had a brief but absolutely magnificent hot bath before taking to his bed. The warmth from the water in the large, fine basin left a reverberating comfort pouring over his skin as he climbed beneath the covers of his bed in his thin, scratchy white nightgown and woolen socks that had been too tight for the past two years at least. It was a thin line between the socks’ ability to keep his feet warm, a vehement necessity in the harsh country winters, and their tendency to cut off his circulation, but they itched less than the nightgown, and the balance was an adequate one.

He lay on his side for a while, gazing through heavy, drooping eyes at the window with its curtains half-drawn, letting a little moonlight ease through with quiet illumination. Even in his ragged old nightclothes, he had a remarkable feeling of soothed satisfaction, as if he really had come home. Tomorrow would be a busy day, so he resigned himself to close his eyes and stop extending the delights which this evening had brought him. No one was going to turn him out of doors or suddenly proclaim him an imposter. Nobody would take this new life away from Will; it was his. 

_I’ll meet Abigail in the morning._ He looked forward to encountering his charge, who of course had been already asleep upon his late arrival. Between the company of a lively little girl and that of the amiable Price and Zeller, he already had an embarrassment of social riches by his meager former standards. While Will was no social butterfly, it must be said he did not wish to dwindle in full obscurity, either; he wanted to see others and be seen, to have in his own homely, undemanding way, appreciation and engagement, even the occasional challenge. 

He wondered about Chiyoh, ward of Murasaki, who kept so often to herself. What would make a well-to-do young woman of grand education and prospects choose to shut herself up in a mainly abandoned old house? Was she, perhaps, a poet? Will smiled, then yawned as sleep came closer to dragging him under its spell. Poets (as he understood it) often liked to be alone with their art. His own art made him feel less alone, but then he was no artist of literary repute, or even of any substantial talent. His sketching was more a consolation and a hobby than anything worthy of display.

And of _Mr. Hannibal Lecter_...yes, Will longed to know more. He felt the shadows haunting this manor must be the remnants of lifelong grief, brought here by Lecter until they poisoned and clung to the walls. Surely this was what Will had felt permeating his sympathies when he arrived. Foolishly, almost ignorantly, so that he was grateful no one else would know of his secret pondering, Will wished Mr. Hannibal Lecter _would_ try a longer stay at Blackstag Hall. He wished that anyone who had weathered such storms could love themselves enough to try and forge a good life, trust others enough to gather them near instead of running away. He wished he could believe this about himself, that he had not been punished in youth because he somehow deserved it. Although he embraced his change here, Will did not fully accept himself as anything more than _useful,_ and he was grateful for simply that: to be useful.

It was really too bad that Mr. Lecter so seldom darkened the halls of his own stately home, but Will knew he must learn -- quite sternly he told himself just before surrendering to a profound slumber -- he must learn to stop nurturing such a spirit of inquisition into mysteries, wandering in his mind where it could never be his place to go in reality.


	2. Chapter 2

Sleeping the whole night through, undisturbed in a comfortable bed with warm blankets was another completely new experience for Will, and he came down to breakfast feeling exceptionally rested. 

Jimmy had informed Will that there was a somewhat unconventional routine for meals at Blackstag. Since Mr. Lecter was away, there was no one to properly supervise Abigail at meals aside from the servants. And therefore, no separate meal times for family versus staff were normally observed. Chiyoh, it appeared, took all meals in her rooms.

Will therefore found himself introduced to his young charge Abigail as she twisted her spoon disconsolately in a bowl of thick porridge, pouting and kicking the leg of her chair in a loud, rhythmic fashion. 

“Really, Miss Abigail, such appalling habits before your teacher has even had the chance for an introduction,” Jimmy sighed from his place across the table from the little girl. 

He stood and bowed to Will, who repeated the formality in turn before Jimmy completed the proper introduction.

“I am honored to make your acquaintance,” Will smiled gently to Abigail, who looked him over discerningly, trying as he thought to decide if he was worth knowing, or simply the next victim of her misbehavior.

Will was unbothered by either determination on her part, as he had spent the better part of his life contending with the various mischiefs of children -- first they had been his school mates, and later his own students -- and she would have to be especially creative to cause any alarm in him.

Settling into his place beside her at the table, Will began adding cream and sugar to his tea before taking a bite of his own porridge. 

“That’s really quite delicious,” he praised. “Are you and Brian responsible for the fine meals I’ve enjoyed since arriving, Jimmy?”

“Oh, well,” Jimmy blushed in pride, “I think we do well enough as cooks given the master’s refusal to hire someone only for that duty. Truth be told, when Mr. Lecter is in residence, he does all the cooking himself and insists that we relax and enjoy it -- quite the cook he is, besides.”

“He truly is an unusual master,” Will mused, his fascination increased yet again on the subject of his unreasonable infatuation. “I have never heard of a wealthy man of the house who takes it upon himself to cook.”

“Much less for the scrumptious fare to be consumed by his servants!” Jimmy laughed. “Unusual he is, Will. Most assuredly.”

“You would not call this porridge ‘tasty’ if you had ever had any really fine cuisine,” Abigail said petulantly to Will.

He supposed she meant to be disagreeable, but she was such a beautiful creature, with her wide blue eyes, freckles and a shining mane of auburn hair done up in two long braids. The braids were tied off slightly crookedly by gleaming pink ribbons, and were of differing lengths. She wore a gorgeous pink dress covered in ruffles, but the buttons had been done up crooked as well, leaving the collar off-kilter. His heart sank to think of her with no maid to help her dress, reliant on herself to create a pleasant appearance to the world, an appearance which was all her mother had cultivated for her in terms of expectation. 

In short, she was a clever, feisty girl, so small and burdened not only with grief, but also strange circumstances, and she struggled to adjust. He could not fault her, but rather admired her bravery. Jimmy had confided that -- though she spoke both languages fluidly -- after Mr. Lecter’s departure Abigail had refused to speak to anyone except in French for several weeks. Finally, the servants managed to wear her down to a reluctant liking of them through kindness, and now her words were intelligible to all, if never cheerful. Why in the world had Mr. Lecter waited six months before securing her a teacher? His motives were entirely inscrutable, and hence undeniably characteristic.

Admirable and pitiable as the girl was, she also would not benefit from being further spoiled, and so Will offered her a pointed look as he replied, “You would not be so quick to express revulsion at a good, wholesome, filling breakfast if you had ever been served _gruel._ ”

With her delicate little voice she inquired, pretty as a doll despite her crooked attire, “And what precisely is ‘gruel’?”

Will could not help a small laugh. Only someone raised with the utmost privilege could ever ask such a question.

“Why do you laugh at me? How dare you?” Abigail demanded in a huff, her cheeks turning red.

Jimmy bit his lip to stifle a laugh of his own and winked at Will before departing for his daily duties about the house.

“I laugh at the difference in our upbringings, not at you,” Will clarified, enjoying another hearty bite of the porridge, which had been seasoned with cinnamon and really was more than palatable. To him, this meal was absolutely luxurious. “Gruel is all I have eaten for breakfast, and often enough dinner besides, for the past eight years of my life.”

“Indeed?” She arched her dark brows. “And how old are you now, pray-tell?”

Charmed by her formal manners, he smiled again, “I am eighteen. I left home when I was ten, never to return, and was placed into the care of a school.”

“Where you were served this...gruel. Was it very awful?” Abigail’s expression took on a morbid fascination.

“Very,” Will chortled. “The method was for the schoolmasters to take about the same amount of porridge which exists currently in your bowl and feed probably ten boys with it, by watering it down until it could reasonably form so many more servings. As you might presume, this also had the virtue of robbing the meal from any flavor it formerly possessed. To add insult to injury, gruel was also made quite often from various dinner remnants of the previous evening, so that it might have begun as a fatty gravy, or a fish stew -- and so you may imagine --”

“Good heavens, tell me no more!” Abigail looked pale as a ghost, shocked to the core. “How disgusting! It was nothing better than pig’s slop.”

“Indeed, I would wager you that pig’s slop would be a great deal more flavorful.”

“I see.” Abigail returned to her breakfast with a new enthusiasm. With her large eyes trained on the casually composed features of her new teacher, she asked, “Tell me more about this dreadful school of yours?”

***

Although Abigail’s interest in his past experiences at Wolftrap had more to do with an instinctual fixation on the maudlin, and formed more an entertainment in her mind than a moral meaning, Will hoped that without perhaps realizing it consciously, the girl would learn from his tales of hard living to appreciate her own life of comfort.

At the very least, this first conversation began the path for them of easier communication. Will struck a careful balance between firm correction of her fast temper and laziness about her studies, and sincerely cheerful encouragement. And especially in his reading and drawing lessons, he adeptly drew her interest despite her previous dislike of all educational pursuits. His dramatic rendition of Sir Walter Scott’s _Ivanhoe_ had her riveted, more prone to look from the pages of her own book and up to her teacher’s animated expressions as he changed voices to embody each character, than to stare out the window or slouch with a complaint of boredom, as would otherwise have been her chosen plan when challenged academically.

And they spent the day’s art lesson in the garden, Abigail in her perfect fur coat and muff, Will shivering slightly in his threadbare overcoat, sketching the leaves which had coated the ground in crisp maroon and orange, littering the otherwise idyllic environs. The seasonal imposition of foliage rendered the grounds of Blackstag so lovely, as if gilded with natural gold, that it was impossible to resent the intrusion. Jimmy had mentioned that gardeners came once a week to tend to the grounds, but in the meantime, the lavish estate was just as susceptible to the elements as its human inhabitants.

After tea, Abigail was dismissed to her nap, which Will congratulated her was well-earned by a day of steady learning and laudable behavior. She accepted the teacher’s praise with a quiet glow about her person, suggesting she was rather like a blossom too soon trampled, merely needing the proper care and encouragement to shine more vibrantly than ever.

He felt warm with the sense of accomplishment, that he had indeed been useful today, as he set off on a walk to the neighboring town to mail some letters from Blackstag. In fact he was so eager to explore the countryside around his new home that he asked Jimmy if there was any errand on which he might spend his free time. Marveling that the teacher sought to fill his one stretch of labor-free hours in the day with such a menial task, Jimmy thanked him, and Will was on his way, strolling merrily through the velvety green fields, barely able to contain his joy at his new circumstances. 

After a mile, he came to a fork in his path where he might continue down the well-trodden walking trail towards town, or opt to traverse the moor. The former, perhaps better exercise, but the latter a much more exciting opportunity, despite being a shortcut. Will keep breathing in great, life-affirming breaths of chill, clean air, uncaring of the cold seeping through his thin layers of clothing, transfixed by the wild majesty of the moors, slipping quite without meaning to into another of his waking-dream states. His remarkably vivid imagination was a trait he hid from others as much as possible, since it undercut his goal of always appearing sensible and useful. It was hardly useful to have the ability to disappear into dream worlds of one’s own rendering, but it _was_ often irresistible.

In his languid afternoon vision, Will decided to cast himself as a noble gentleman attending a ball at Blackstag, and encountering the master of the house upon the dancefloor. In his imagination, Mr. Hannibal Lecter was a shadowy figure, tall, broad-shouldered, otherwise unknown, but somehow ineffably attractive. Mr. Lecter immediately became entranced with his young guest and entreated Will's company for the next dance. In the real world, still wrapped intently in his dream, Will gave a low bow and a light laugh. “Oh, Mr. Lecter, it would be my great pleasure to--”

And then, quite without warning, the very air was knocked from his lungs as a rider going much too fast for safety upon the back of a sleek black steed came speeding up from behind him in the field, the hard weight of the horse’s muscle brushing Will’s sore shoulder when he passed by. 

Will’s momentary loss of breath came from the sudden surprise of the animal’s proximity, and the unexpected jolt of pain to his old injury, the second sensation thankfully very brief. He felt perfectly well again in body mere moments later, although he stood, torn from his fantasy, staring in shock at the rider still galloping away as if he were fleeing the gates of hell.

***

Hannibal despised England. It was not home, for home was a place he could never go. Instead, it was a false home, a veneer of an untouchable belonging. Blackstag housed all of his most unwanted obligations, and yet as such it was the magnet which would always drag him back, kicking and screaming internally against the necessity. He was a wound which never healed, and Blackstag the knife picking along the seam of his stitches. 

Hence he rode home in a bleakly dejected mood from the farm which he had been obliged to visit in order to ensure the residents had the resources they required to survive the upcoming winter. Livestock was the lifeblood of the local economy, and each farm formed a part of the body of his estate. He must therefore occasionally make himself seen and play his required role of master, grating as he found the farmer’s subservient words of thanks, tiresome as he found these menial affairs of nearly depressing _survival._

After the death of his parents and sister, and the especially grisly way in which his sister had been snatched before his very eyes, ending as a meal for their starving captors, Hannibal had never recovered his ability to feel joy. He had always been a boy of sharp, dark corners, and as a rich man of property he had every opportunity to pursue his most brutal, taboo indulgences. As such, and because nothing else provided him even the most fleeting satisfaction, Hannibal indulged to gluttonous excess, caring only for the finest luxuries in life, and for his gruesome pastime of viciously murdering those he disliked, then eating his victims in a continuous banquet wherein he condemned the rude. He took a certain grim, but smug enjoyment in keeping others ignorant of his true nature, and liked to tell himself he was put into this world to burn through it, cleansing it of the discourteous, feeding the wolves of his wild inner despair along the way. The violence was beautiful, and he was a profound aestheticist, above all else.

Those people whom he deemed worthy of remaining clear from his monstrous proclivities, he kept at arm’s length. This was why his staff and ward at Blackstag found themselves wanting for nothing, but always in a sort of baffled awe of their benefactor. He expected nothing more from this visit “home,” except for a dull discussion of the household budget with Jimmy Price, and a regrettably unavoidable reunion with his young ward Abigail. Having taken the girl in because she simply had nowhere else to go, he wished to see her well cared for, but what indeed did he have to say or to do with the upbringing of a child? Anything that was innocent, he abhorred as a reminder of his own cursed naivete in boyhood. Furthermore, the child was obviously better off knowing little to nothing of her surrogate parent, even if she one day resented his absence from her life.

Riding at a rough but calculated speed that at least got his blood pumping and briefly distracted him from his gloomy mood, Hannibal entered upon the moors near Blackstag only to have his world upended within a few shattering moments. He chanced to see, while riding like one of the devil’s own apocalyptic heralds, a boy who was...as it seemed, dancing through the wild grass, talking animatedly to himself. In a handful of precious seconds replete with startling realization, Hannibal glimpsed the features of the boy’s face, the lines of his figure, the expression of brilliant, soulful dreaminess about his demeanor.

The next thing Hannibal knew, he had guided the horse wrongly and been flung from the animal’s back, hurtled to the ground until he rolled -- humiliatingly picking up strands of grass and plentiful dust along the way, landing at the foot of a big, drooping tree where he concluded by knocking his head against the trunk.

He blinked as the world focused and unfocused before his eyes, blurry, incomprehensible. From a distance, he heard a young male voice calling to him in surprised concern, “Sir! Sir, are you hurt?”

And then, sprawled in a most undignified stance with his back against the tree while his head lolled about and he blinked without clearing his vision, Hannibal saw that face again. So, even before the blow about his skull, he had been hallucinating. Perhaps madness had chosen today, after so many years of threatening, today to close in and swallow him whole. But if it meant he could gaze upon such a vision, Hannibal would not regret losing his mind. 

The boy crouched beside him and cupped his face in two pale hands, soft but for some faint lines on the palms that lightly scraped Hannibal’s cheeks. Such eyes peered into his own, large, framed by dark, silky lashes, alternating depending on the sunlight’s inconsistent toss of light between sapphire and jade, such lips, pursing in concern, then quickly licked as his own maroon-tinged brown eyes landed upon them with silent, wanton yearning. How else could one respond, even a madman, even the devil incarnate -- before the sight of a perfect heavenly angel? For once in his life, Hannibal felt struck down by the divine.

“Please sir, speak a few words -- perhaps your name, or where you are from, so that I might know you will recover. A blow to the head can be very severe, you know.”

Hannibal squinted at him, at the way the lustrous curls spilled across his pale brow, cut to the quick yet again by the sound of the boy’s voice, sweet and intelligent, endlessly sensuous. It sounded, despite its unfair temptations, like a real voice. Against his face fell _real_ breath, human oxygen expelled from this divine creature, as if the mortal world had any excuse to chain such an exquisite being to its dreadful mundaneness.

How could it be? This boy could not possibly be real. No one could be that beautiful.

***

Will’s heart was in his throat as he stared down at the man who lay half-slumped against the tree, reliant on his hardly exemplary medical knowledge to perhaps survive this wild collision. 

“Please,” he went on begging, “I must ascertain the extent of your injuries if I’m to be any help at all. If we’re to understand whether you can be moved, for example…”

“You--you’re real,” the gentleman -- for he must be one, with his flawless suit and arriving as he did upon the elegant steed who now stood, rather annoyed and huffing, off to one side of the field -- the gentleman stammered. He looked almost frightened by the fact.

“Oh, me?” Will smiled in spite of his own anxious state, relieved at least that the gentleman was speaking. “Yes, quite real, I assure you. I understand you may be somewhat disoriented at present. You see, as I was walking towards the town, you came riding in my direction at quite a shocking speed and bumped me to one side, before your horse stumbled and you were thrown--”

“Yes, I remember what occurred.” The gentleman looked rather offended by Will’s attempt to recount the accident. 

For the first time, now that his agony of worry about the man’s possibly impending demise faded away, Will took in the sight of him, began to absorb the stranger’s presence and its impact on him. And he realized that the effect was not at all dissimilar to receiving a harsh blow to the head with an accompanying rush of dizzy nerves. Perhaps their situations, in this moment, were not at all oppositional.

The gentleman sat up a bit straighter and pridefully adjusted his attire, a thick, sumptuous black overcoat over a suit whose trousers -- although marred by moor dirt -- were so smooth and fine in appearance as to suggest he only ever wore the very best. His features were chiseled, by which reflection Will communicated to himself a belief that such perfection could only be rendered artistically, and in worship of beauty. With high, regal cheekbones, plush lips and a searing amber gaze, the stranger quite took Will’s breath away. His stunning face was framed by noble sideburns and long, soft-looking hair in shades of light brown, tawny blonde and silver, glistening under the midday sun. The hair had been drawn back in a neat ponytail tied off in a black velvet ribbon which had since loosened, letting many lustrous strands flow in a disheveled glory about the man’s broad shoulders. 

“Are you injured as well?” the gentleman demanded, his silky voice racing through the words, failing to conceal genuine concern beneath a habitual snobbery, and along the journey of this analysis Will discerned a thick foreign accent, exotic and compelling. “Why are you staring at me thus?”

“Ah! Merely to ensure that you are quite recovered, sir,” Will explained, nearly fumbling the words so that the sentence fell apart along with his best-laid scheme of appearing unaffected by the stranger’s appearance. “Come, may I help you up, as long as you feel able?”

The gentleman felt along his own forehead, then shrugged. “I appear to be relatively well, all considered. I am quite able to rise unassisted.”

“Sir, please don’t allow pride to distort your perception of circumstance. I’m concerned you may not be able to stand independently without swooning at present. That really was quite a fall--”

“I’ll thank you to leave me to my own devices,” the gentleman huffed, gathering himself carefully before beginning to rise, leaning heavily on the tree instead of taking Will’s offered arm. “I’m very sorry to have interrupted your afternoon reverie--”

“It wasn’t a reverie, I was walking to town to post some letters,” Will objected, his cheeks turning scarlet at the recollection of what he had been doing when the rider approached, which was indulging a childishly romantic fantasy about his employer, a total stranger and his better in every social class and grace.

“You were dancing upon the moor,” The gentleman corrected him, bracing his palm against the rough bark of the tree as he stood a bit further, almost all the way up to his normal stature now. “And probably singing besides.”

“I was _not_ singing,” Will fretted, annoyed, embarrassed, highly confused by his inability to force his eyes away from this actually rather infuriating man who was very nearly mocking him. “And I really implore you to take my arm before you stumble--”

“I do not need help,” the gentleman insisted, making a badly choreographed attempt to harmlessly bat Will’s arm away.

As it happened, Will moved in that moment at the worst possible angle, causing the gentleman’s elbow to connect directly with his eye, whereupon the younger man let out a soft whine of pain while the older one plummeted again most inelegantly to the ground.

“Devil take it,” the gentleman groused, sitting up again as Will put a hand to his eye where pain was resonating strongly enough that he breathed heavily, and some of the salt trickling down his cheeks was more from pain than natural lubrication of the injured eye.

“You might have just taken my arm instead of being a stubborn fool about it,” Will complained, too aggravated and pained at present to particularly care he was being disrespectful towards his social better. A poor standard this “Gentleman” set for manners at any rate! Why should Will extend him any superior consideration of etiquette, indeed?

“You might have simply departed when asked to.” The gentleman’s face eased from its stern expression for the first time since their meeting, and he looked regretful as Will slowly removed his fingers from the offended bright blue eye.

“I am sorry,” the gentleman added, “I never meant to hurt you. Is the injury--”

“It is of no consequence,” Will sighed. “That is, I have been in my fair share of scrapes over the years, and this is no serious injury. The impact of your elbow will leave the area around my eye a bit bruised, but my vision has cleared and I believe myself otherwise unscathed.”

The man swallowed, processing some deep contemplation which Will could not fathom, even with all his usual skills of human analysis. “Well, then.”

“Well, then,” Will resumed, stooping slightly with his arm crooked out. “Are you ready to set aside your arrogant disdain for safety and take my arm?”

“You incorrigible little thing,” said the man, unable to mask a brief chuckle. “Very well, as I now fear there is no other recourse to prevent your haunting me here forever.”

The gentleman finally accepted the offer of the younger man’s slim body to lean upon, resting his weight gingerly to Will’s arm and the shoulder which had specifically been offered him -- the one which had not been injured in childhood and was better suited to the task.

“Does the horse know his own way home, or must we send someone for him?” Will inquired as they began slowly walking through the moor, pointed in the direction of the main path. “I come from Blackstag Hall, and we can surely have our housekeeper and man-servant come out to retrieve the animal if necessary.”

“He knows his way; he is exceptionally well-trained. You come...from Blackstag Hall?” the gentleman asked with husky disbelief. 

“Yes. I am teacher to a child residing there.”

“And what is your name, young teacher?” 

“It is Will Graham,” Will revealed, noting that the introduction went unreturned and taking it as a social snub which he resented in the circumstances. 

He did _not_ resent the man’s muscular arm encircling his shoulder, nor the broad, smooth hand of the stranger’s other arm clamped firmly to his hip. He did not particularly feel inclined to complain of the sensual body heat emanating from the stranger’s person to warm his own rather frigid form, nor the intriguing scent of citrus and spice mingled on doubtless exorbitant perfume, tastefully emanating from said distracting stranger.

“And who is the master of the house from which you come drifting across the moors like an enchanted wood nymph?”

Will groaned, “Please cease in your evaluation of my activity from earlier, sir. The master of Blackstag Hall is Mr. Hannibal Lecter. I have never had the pleasure of Mr. Lecter’s acquaintance, yet from what I have heard from the servants, I am certain he would be gracious enough to invite you to recover at his home until you are again well enough to travel.”

“So now you are extending invitations on the master’s behalf,” the gentleman snorted.

“Excuse me? Really, sir, would you prefer I left you to die of exposure upon the moors, eventually found only by the possible runaway sheep who might honor your abandoned corpse only by nibbling upon your excellent coat?”

“A suitable end after all of my harping on your fragile nerves,” the gentleman said, again surprisingly apologetic. As they rounded a corner and drew closer to Blackstag, he firmed his grip on Will and gave a small moan as if dizziness again assaulted his head when they had to turn. “I am sorry...young Mr. Graham...it seems that your particular concoction of naive good intentions and outburst of prideful temper has inspired my mischievous side.”

“I beg your pardon. I am no fragile creature. And I am neither naive nor prideful, but you are both if you choose to underestimate my intellect and ability for no better reason than observing my youth and low positioning on the social hierarchy.”

“I can see that, Mr. Graham,” the gentleman mused, deeply struck, breaking through the haze of his continued disorientation to fix his incisive cinnamon gaze upon Will, bringing up the color in the younger man’s cheeks again. “It would be a grave error indeed to underestimate you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More soon...as Will learns the identity of this haughty stranger, and Hannibal devotes himself to learning all about the unique young teacher ❤️


	3. Chapter 3

Price and Zeller came rushing into the foyer of Blackstag Hall upon the rather loud and awkward entrance of two persons who were revealed to be in quite a dreadful state.

“Oh, sir!” Price fretted, his eyes wide as those of his companion while they took in the sight of their master, covered in dirt and with loose hair hanging about his face, limping along with an arm around the new young teacher, whose left eye was encircled by a darkening purple bruise. 

Both master and teacher looked supremely displeased at the scenario, and Price’s surprised concern was not without a tiny hint of amusement in his eyes, one which Hannibal decided to ignore, as he had larger problems to hand at present than his cousin’s inappropriate humor.

“What happened to the two of you?” Zeller inquired, as if evaluating a remarkable and rare event of nature, a lunar eclipse, or a scientific revelation at the Great Exhibition. Perhaps it was equally extraordinary to see Mr. Hannibal Lecter looking anything less than perfectly assembled, and to see him reliant on someone else.

“Whatever has happened, all that is required of the two of you is to kindly make way,” Hannibal insisted with an indignant grunt, pointing towards the kitchen so that Will Graham would understand where his employer was to be conveyed. 

“Of course, Mr. Lecter,” Price said with a recovery perhaps too lavish in the way of obsequious deference. If Hannibal was not mistaken, he noticed Zeller elbowing Price in the side with silent mockery. “Please, let us know if we can do anything at all to assist!”

“ _Must have taken a fall from that great hulking beast of a horse he is always riding,_ ” Hannibal heard Zeller saying to Price as he and Will crossed the foyer and small hallway leading into the kitchen. “ _But how came he to stumble in along with our young Will? And did you catch a glimpse of Will’s eye, poor lad?_

“Mr. Lecter?” Will Graham repeated as his only observation from their eventful arrival.

He kept his grip steadily helpful, guiding Hannibal to the large and impressive kitchen of the estate, and then into a chair at the table beside the stove. 

“Your tone of voice provides an astonishing tapestry of conflicted impressions, Mr. Graham,” Hannibal marveled, still slightly out of breath as he relaxed into his seat, eyes intent on his bedraggled traveling companion. 

The difficult walk home had rendered this intoxicating Will just as dusty as Hannibal was himself, and even a bit more streaked in the skin by that peculiar sweat one garners with strong exercise on a cold day. The boy looked, as a whole, delicious. The dirt clinging to his poor little suit and the sweat making his lovely curls cling closer to his shining brow only enhanced Hannibal’s impression of the teacher’s ravishing appearance.

“It is as though you are both slightly humbled and rather irked with me, at learning my identity,” Hannibal finished, finally summoning the presence of mind to correctly examine his own state of injury by placing his palm upon the back of his head. The relief of finding his daze clearing more fully was soon followed by a helpless groan of pain.

“If you would have told me who you were when we first met, you might have saved me the embarrassment of telling you all about Blackstag, as if it was not your own home,” Will said coldly, his pride more wounded than any other part of him. 

“Not prideful,” indeed. Hannibal fought back a smile. The boy was surely not prideful in the way that Hannibal was -- insistent on his entire autonomy, superior in the sense of his own make-up and his taste in the sublime -- but he was hurt by anyone thinking lowly of him or mocking him. And Hannibal found this painfully endearing.

“I was not in my right mind, Mr. Graham; I beg you would forgive me. It is the thump I received to the back of my head, I am sure--”

Will cast his eyes aloft, most likely begging the heavens for mercy in dealing with such an irritating prospect. “As if it is not perfectly obvious that you were teasing me, sir.”

“My--” Hannibal occupied himself in trying to tame the disastrous state of his hair as his cheeks flamed along with the necessity of smothering hundreds of potential endearments and flirtations. Who could help teasing such a tempting, beautiful creature when he responded with that innocent frustration laced all through with intolerable sensuality?

“I have begged for your forgiveness; is that not enough to recover your good opinion of me, even if I was teasing? Perhaps I was merely curious to see what would happen, if I should delay our formal introduction.”

And well he liked the result: Will’s reluctant shrug of acquiescence, his pretty face betraying an internal struggle of some kind, whatever it was, entirely fascinating.

Will sighed, letting the matter go to remark, “As to the pain about your head, sir. We might summon the doctor--”

“I do not believe it is necessary. Please, avail yourself of the icebox there behind you and sit with me for a moment to recover.”

Will turned to find a wooden cabinet, conveniently plentiful with cut ice. Taking a sizeable chunk of it, he wrapped it in a towel and sank into the chair beside his master, gingerly touching the ice to the inflamed skin around his eye.

“ _Ahh,_ ” Will winced in pain, causing Hannibal to abandon his ongoing appraisal of the hard bump upon his head, which did ache fearfully. 

“Here,” he said softly, “Let me.” 

Will made no objection, but handed over the bundle of ice. Hannibal cupped the boy’s chin in one hand, more carefully than he would touch the most delicate porcelain, and slowly slid the softer side of the ice along the edges of Will’s wound.

The teacher shivered and released a low sigh, fairly clutching at his own legs, staving off an abundance of sensation -- merely pain, or pleasure besides? Hannibal thought it would kill him not to know the answer, and tried to reason with himself that he was being carried away in a manner most unlike him. It would not do to indulge an infatuation with Abigail’s teacher, not only because it threatened the integrity of his ward’s education, but...this feeling in his heart like a roaring lion, a windstorm tearing down the defenses about his inner world. The threat to his strict independence and the way he had quarantined himself from all human intimacy, it could not be allowed to continue. He must control himself at once.

“There,” he forced himself to say more formally, although he really wished to murmur it seductively, to pull the boy’s slender frame upon his lap and kiss the offended eye better before letting his lips wander generously elsewhere. “Is that better?”

“Somewhat,” Will replied with what seemed adorably like a small hiccup, soon smoothed away by the clearing of his throat. “Now, please be honest with me this time regarding your own wound.”

“I must put your mind at ease, lest you worry yourself into an early grave over the medical destiny of a total stranger,” Hannibal smiled, giving in already despite his attempted defenses. Giving into the temptation to take that soft, long fingered hand and guide it to the sore point on his own head. Falling into a cerulean sea in the boy’s eyes as Will gasped, his fingers traveling in quick, gentle strokes over the wound.

“Sir, that really feels…” Will’s eyes remained locked on his own, prompting Hannibal’s heart to speed out of his control. To be under the boy’s touch was purest ecstasy; no matter that the touch occasioned him some small twinges of returned pain; perhaps the pain even made the touch better, more arousing, certainly much, much more intimate.

“Yes?” Hannibal whispered, feeling faint, as if everything would fade from him except the suspense of Will’s next word or movement, what he might be thinking of, fingers sliding back and forth through his master’s hair, tracing the shape of the bump, leaving shivery tendrils of pleasure with every touch.

“Terrible,” Will managed, composing himself from utmost fascination back to resigned coolness. He drew his hand away and took the ice from Hannibal, applying it again to his eye, more in the manner which his master had demonstrated, rather than the abrupt method he had first employed to ill effect. “It feels terrible, sir. I am no physician; you have seen, in fact, that I am very nearly useless in the medical realm, yet I did sometimes care for other sick boys at the school from which I came. And I feel I have some small understanding of the severity in your injury. I therefore beg you to call upon the doctor, rather than risk any further consequence through neglect.”

“Who is the master, and who the paid dependent?” Hannibal inquired archly.

Will regarded him thoughtfully for a few suspended moments, drawing his pink, lucious lower lip into his mouth for a brief suck that nearly caused his master to lose all composure. 

“You do not seem to resent my supplication.”

A potent thrum of arousal washed through Hannibal’s whole being, centering itself in a tight pleasure coiling about his low belly, destined to course quickly downward. 

“No, I do not, Mr. Graham. In fact I find myself most uncharacteristically eager to do as I am asked.”

Soon it was time for them to part ways, as there was an obvious need for each of them to bathe post-haste and continue recovering from their injuries with their respective work of the week ahead in mind. There was duty, obligation, and the accompanying reminder that becoming instantly besotted with a handsome stranger was not only a fool's game, but a child's. Both men recalled themselves to their proper places, but without being able to repress the memory of their brief meeting which would sweetly torment their hearts and nerves all the rest of the day and night.

***

The town doctor was a snide nuisance of a man named Dr. Abel Gideon, and Hannibal normally did all in his power to avoid calling for the fellow. However, in the fever thrust of his initial reaction to Will Graham’s presence, Hannibal had made the young teacher a promise. And he did not want to continue down the road of their relationship (whatever it was to be) with so much as one promise broken. He held to his word and allowed Dr. Gideon to preside over his bed chambers with an annoying examination of his skull and an even more irritating inquiry as to how he had acquired the injury, a fine skilled horseman like himself.

It was all well worth enduring for Will. As an added bit of relief from the inconvenience, Hannibal bestowed upon Gideon his most subtly resentful glare before the doctor took his leave. It was the expression he used to inform future victims that while today might not be the day that would find them laid out upon his dinner table, roasted and glazed, the day would indeed arrive, sooner or later. Gideon, for all his pretension, was a perceptive fellow, and looked appropriately concerned, although almost certainly unaware of how severe the danger was that he courted with his laughter at Hannibal’s expense. Such behavior was acceptable, if barely, coming from his staff, who respected and even adored their master, but from an outsider who considered himself an intellectual superior, it gathered consequence over time.

Mentally drafting a few recipes which might suit Dr. Gideon when the day arrived, Hannibal found himself thereafter struggling to sleep. In the morrow, he was certain -- from his increased recovery, after a solid meal and a long bath, and bed rest all through the remaining time until then -- he would be almost fully recovered. Gideon had assessed the wound as superficial, merely in need of rest and gentle treatment, as it was not in a place where a bandage might be reasonably fastened. 

Gentle...Will had been so very gentle with him, when he touched the wound, so awestruck somehow...but was it really the boy’s awe towards his master which Hannibal detected, or merely his own delusion, fed upon foolish hopes and dreams of what could probably never happen between them?

He tossed and turned, bitterly resentful of the hours which must pass before he laid eyes on the boy again, the sweet-faced teacher who rested but a few rooms down the hall, most likely soundly slumbering unaware of the wild passion he had ignited by virtue of his mere existence. Avoiding any pressure to the back of his skull, Hannibal flipped from one side-sleeping position to another, unable to find comfort. Soon, the usual noise of a Blackstag night arrived to further interfere with his mental crisis, sounds that formed one large reason why he visited here so infrequently. They were at once an accusation, a reminder of obligation, a regret. The noise recalled viciously to his mind why Will Graham might never love him, not if he ever learned the full truth about Hannibal. 

Still, he must try. A fierce ambition had taken him over, to know Will, to be close to him. Eventually, to understand whether they could fully connect, if Will could see and understand Hannibal in entirety without revulsion. It had never occurred to him before that recognition where he was concerned could ever lead to love. But now the question tugged at his consciousness with ruthless persistence. Always, Hannibal had congratulated himself on what he _knew_ and relied only on taking what he could _have._ Here and now, he knew next to nothing of Will Graham, except that he must know all. And this, with no assurance that his interest would be reciprocated, or that it would not be resented. 

If he also happened to realize that this was the first time in years he had felt his soul awakened to new possibility, enchanted by a beauty which he could confess to himself defied his every expectation, Hannibal was unable to take any comfort from the fact. How wretched a fate, to finally learn that one was capable of nurturing a dream, only to have the inherent fear that he might be too unlovable a beast to ever possess that which he yearned for.

***

Will’s second night at Blackstag was so different from the first that under normal circumstances he might have been shocked at the contrast. But these were highly unusual circumstances, fraught, complex, mesmerizing like the place itself and indeed its master.

Where the night before had found Will so exhausted from his journey that sleep overtook him with great ease, in his agitated, baffled state of mind regarding the first encounter with Mr. Hannibal Lecter, he was much more prone to lay awake desperately trying to puzzle out his emotions and what he might expect from future interactions with the man.

Coming to no rational conclusions, and therefore none that were useful, he wrapped himself up in his blanket and settled at his desk with the design of sketching until his body announced a readiness for sleep.

Unsurprisingly, his hand almost of its own volition began to trace out the lines of Mr. Lecter’s face as Will remembered it, the devouring eyes, the lips prone to snobbish scowls and unpredictable twists of humor, the haunting sadness about his person. He came no closer to dissolving his inappropriate fixation, which was now not focused on a mere boyish fantasy, but the flesh and blood realization of a man so far above his station that even a friendship was well out of reach. 

His heart sank, he stared down at the pile of sketches, he shook out his wrist and aching hand. If only he could go back to dreaming about a mysterious _idea_ of a dashing master. All he had ever known of romance was what his creative energy could paint for him, most of it drawn from literature -- _Romeo and Juliet,_ _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ , the letters and poems of John Keats. Will used to think that his fondness for such passionate material was a harmless one, as he was so entirely unlikely to be married. He had reasoned that reading and dreaming about love formed a substitute for sensations his body and heart yearned to touch but never would, and the feelings had to find some outlet. The more he considered it all at present, he quite wished he could forget all about love, erase every cherished line from his overly fanciful memory -- how he once rejoiced to imagine himself the recipient of a balcony profession, leaning out his window to hear some shadowy visage of a dream lover saying _”but soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and you my love are the sun."_

 _Nonsense,_ he muttered, trying to shuck the tender words away like an unwanted layer of sweetness clinging to his skin. 

He caressed the sensitive skin around his eye where Mr. Lecter had so attentively stroked the ice, and recalled that the sensation of coldness had been quickly replaced by pure fire -- the master’s deep brown eyes and the inscrutable conflict in his expression -- it brought to mind his favorite poem of Keats -- 

“ _O breathe a word or two of fire!  
Smile, as if those words should burn me,  
Squeeze as lovers should—O kiss  
And in thy heart inurn me—  
O love me truly!_”

“ _Nonsense!_ ” Will snapped at himself, crumpling the drawing atop his fresh stack of pencil-wrought tributes to Mr. Lecter. 

There could be no ardent smiles, burning kisses or loving hearts between them, for so many reasons. First, he reminded himself angrily, disappointed with his own vapid folly, there were two sorts of human specimens in the world: you might be a person, or a teacher. Now, if you were a person, whether servant or noble, you might easily marry within your own class. However, a teacher lived _between_ the classes. Will was neither a gentleman (despite having emerged from a well-to-do family; little did this matter as he had been cast off), nor a servant. People looked upon teachers with a special sort of tongue-clucking disdain; how tragically awkward, to be mannered and educated on a near equal level with the upper class, but forced by financial necessity to labor under someone else’s roof. What a shame. Yet teachers were most often invisible to anyone but their pupils; if Mr. Lecter had not chanced to tumble from his horse upon the moor, he would have ridden past Will without giving him a second thought. The nursing which Mr. Lecter had briefly applied to Will’s injury in the kitchen implied a gratitude for his employee’s assistance in his own time of need, nothing more.

Second. If by some exceptionally unlikely and absurd to even consider twist of fate, Mr. Lecter should happen to return the attraction, it would do Will good to remember that they could never marry. A wealthy landed gentleman would never marry an impoverished teacher. There could only be a seduction, and Will had read enough of Richardson and Austen to know what followed that. His honor, his chastity, his Christian purity, these were the most precious commodities he possessed -- the idea had been viciously imprinted into his mind from eight years of harsh schooling. He could never surrender his innocence in the heat of passion, only to be abandoned, his heart smashed and his reputation damaged beyond repair. How could he live with himself?

Thank goodness it was so unlikely that the lofty Mr. Lecter would ever cast his eyes downward enough to think thus of his surrogate daughter’s teacher. Thank heaven the gentleman was probably very much above that sort of transgression into immoral debauchery.

Will found he was sweating by now, having brought himself to such an apex of anxiety that his hands were fairly trembling. Aggravated anew, but pleased that through bitter self-upbraiding he had opened his eyes to the idiocy into which he nearly sank after one simple meeting with his employer, Will flung the blanket off his shoulders, leaving it draped about his chair. He flung _himself_ unceremoniously upon the bed, where his curls bounced and landed in his eye, to be blown away impatiently.

There was no such thing as _love at first sight._ However, the human sex drive -- whilst a subject too humiliatingly private to discuss with anyone else -- he knew to be a very real, unfortunately very intense part of his healthy male make-up. He was young, had never been touched, had certain instincts which would not disappear, although they had no practical application, and if indulged could only lead to downfall. Still, he accepted the painful truth, that he felt lust. The thought of taking his lamp from the table there and finding his way down the hall to his master’s private bedchamber had certainly occurred to him, was occurring to him still. He imagined the surprise on Mr. Lecter’s face, thought of how he himself might look, dimly illuminated by a single lingering flame in the darkness of night, dressed only in his nightgown, which was slightly too small and therefore very revealing. Would Mr. Lecter know what he wanted, merely with a look? That Will wanted his sternness again, his firm mastery over him, but also the softness, the vulnerability insubstantially hidden by all that powerful pride. How he wanted--

 _”Dammit,"_ Will muttered, although he never swore. Immediate guilt swept in and he whispered a quick apology to the Lord for the verbal transgression. He was deeply aware of the hardness between his thighs, his stiff member bobbing impatiently, threatening to poke through the gap in buttons on the lower part of his nightgown. It would be so easy to take himself in hand and provide some small relief, but he could not pleasure himself with Mr. Lecter in mind, that was a sin as well -- a sin, to objectify his employer and use him as a means for exorcising the inappropriate sexual desires in his heart. So he clamped his eyes tightly shut and listened to his own heartbeat hammering in his ear; the merest brush of his fingers would provide an immediate, blissful stimulation, but he resisted, with a soft moan that would be his only admission of guilt.

Soon there was more noise joining his restless heart pulse and quiet gasps of deprivation, something to distract Will from clutching at the bedclothes instead of gripping his erection. He heard sounds of desperate human suffering -- a woman, as he thought, her voice echoing from above, a _howl_ like that of a feral she-wolf, with a lonely clawing about the inflection of every heated wordless complaint that touched on something in his own mournful state.

Will took a few deep breaths, steadying himself as fear and concern replaced his previous arousal. His body realigned itself to the present cause, and he rose to draw his blanket around himself once more, so that it draped generously around him, trailing off just under his knees. Taking the lamp, he nudged his bedroom door open and padded down the hall in his tight, uncomfortable socks, his legs freezing immediately in the chilly corridor. 

He followed the source of the howling, past another bedroom door which he felt sure must be Mr. Lecter’s, then up a spiral-twisting set of stairs to the third floor. These were the guest rooms, as Jimmy had explained when providing Will a basic overview of the estate, and were seldom used due to the master’s notoriously unsocial attitude. There were five of them, with a water closet at the end of that hallway, and above him, as Will shifted the glow of his light, he saw a latch which must lead to the attic.

Will had been relatively certain that Chiyoh’s room must be up here, but the rooms with their open doors and dark environs were empty. And Jimmy had never specified exactly where in the house Murasaki’s ward resided. Will suspected that even his mentioning that she did live here was only done so that Will would not be surprised if their paths should cross.

He looked up at the attic door, wondering if it was truly possible that the rich aunt’s ward chose to sequester herself in the most remote corner of the house, and if it was done to mask the volume of her screaming. Who else could be raising such a ghastly, but heartrending racket, if it was not she? Will felt deeply for the ordeal that could summon such inhuman wailing, and reached for the latch with the inspiration of seeing if there was any aid he might provide to comfort the sorrowful young lady. Perhaps, like himself, she could simply do with a friend.

“Mr. Graham, what in heaven’s name are you doing?” Jimmy demanded in a harsh whisper, looking so out of sorts that Will had to take a moment to adjust in the change that came over the normally jovial housekeeper’s expression.

“I thought…” Will’s brow furrowed and he realized he must seem slightly insane himself, wandering around the house in the dead of night in his nightclothes and blanket, preparing to ascend into the attic to check on a howling fellow occupant. “I was concerned for Miss Chiyoh’s safety when I heard all of the noise.”

Jimmy considered this explanation very carefully, so much that Will had to wonder if somehow he had guessed wrongly and it was not Chiyoh who cried so relentlessly, but another person altogether of whom he knew nothing, and of whom he was _meant_ to know nothing.

Yet that too seemed rather absurd. What reason would Jimmy have for lying to Will about the occupants of Blackstag, when they were so few? Who else could be crying out and allowed to do so while master and servants slept on? Will guessed that in her room on the lower floor, Abigail -- a heavier sleeper too by virtue of youth -- might not hear the howls, but they would certainly be audible to anyone else.

“Miss Chiyoh is quite well, Will,” Jimmy assured him, calming his own features through subtle exertion of patience and determination, as Will thought. “Please, go back to bed. I do apologize for the noise, but, um...the young lady is prone to fits of anxious distress. She is not ill, and nothing threatens her. She has merely been the witness to the horrors of Lecter Castle, much like the master.”

“And all these years later, the images of the past still bring her to such miserable despair,” Will mused, following Jimmy as they descended back to the second floor and walked in the direction of the teacher’s bedroom. “Yet unlike Mr. Lecter, Miss Chiyoh does not use a prideful armor and a habit of running away from familial obligations to keep past demons at bay. She lives with them.”

“We all have to live with the past, and with the decisions we make to live with ourselves, keep the others around us intact and protected,” Jimmy remarked. “A bold assertion you make regarding the master upon scant acquaintance, and yet I cannot argue your theory. I can only urge you on two points.”

Will paused outside the door of his chamber with a brow arched. “They are?”

“One, that you keep such analyses to yourself, as I promise you they will not be welcomed by the master, coming from a mere teacher to his ward. Second, that you do not go upstairs again, as that part of the house is restricted at present. Especially, you are forbidden to go into the attic.”

Will marveled at the change in his new friend, knowing very well that only a severe alarm would prompt such a kind man to espouse condescending language with him.

“I certainly do not want to cause inconvenience or disturbance to any member of the household,” Will replied, knowing his voice and his features betrayed his utter bafflement at Jimmy’s behavior and the mysteries of Blackstag Hall. 

“An excellent instinct on your part,” Jimmy nodded, glancing from his own warm green bathrobe and firm matching slippers to Will’s ragged attire, clinging socks and the blanket clutched desperately around him to prevent being chilled through and through. A twinge of sympathy at Will’s lot in life seemed to combine with regret that he himself must be so steely in dissuading the teacher’s investigations. “There are a few more hours before we must all be up and about our duties. Go back to sleep now, Will.”

“Goodnight, Jimmy,” Will murmured, nodding politely and slipping back into the room, where he locked the door, left with a persistent feeling of dread after the fearful howling and the lack of answers. 

Perhaps there was a madwoman residing over his head, perhaps a madder man inside his own troubled mind, but whatever the case, it was another full hour before he finally managed to slide into a fitful slumber, troubled by nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Will and Hannibal each resolve to restrain themselves from the attraction they both fear is one-sided...we'll see how _that_ goes! Plus: Hannibal's curiosity about Will's background, and Will's advice to Hannibal about parenting Abigail yield interesting results...


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal had wrenched a few hours of sleep from an unfeeling universe, and upon waking was relieved to find he felt restored to his usual self; that is to say, immune to nonsense. The swelling about his head wound had gone down substantially, and he resolved to spend the day closing each small piece of business which had brought him back to Blackstag. Perhaps tomorrow or the next day, the work would be done, all meetings conducted, payments conferred, servants and farmers secure to continue in their duties without his supervision for the foreseeable future, and himself, once again free as the wind.

Although he had been quite foolish the night before, in obsessively contemplating that pretty young teacher, Hannibal decided to excuse himself now, as it must have been the blow to his head which had rendered him so blind with impossible whimsy. As for this Will Graham, with whom he was of course _not_ in love, Hannibal’s only duty was to properly assess whether the teacher possessed the skills to impart an education that would be worthy of his ward. This could be done coldly, with all due politeness, but certainly without any further danger of tender emotion.

As such, Hannibal allowed another entire day to pass before he set eyes on Will again. Naturally the delay arose from his monumentally full schedule and had nothing to do with needing time to summon the bravery to confront a potential crisis. For how could any threat to his own continued self-insulation be personified by a boy whom he barely knew, a boy in his employ? He fell back upon his normal manner of conducting business, which was highly methodical. It almost calmed him. “Almost” was not good enough, so that a small but potent continued frustration with himself kept dogging his mind.

Meanwhile, Will worried that he might have done something to offend the master, who took none of his meals with Abigail and her teacher, but instead seemed to spend every moment since his recovery in riding about his property upon various errands of business. Will believed Jimmy’s casual explanation that Mr. Lecter had to complete a vast amount of work which had accrued in his absence from the estate, yet did the master not also need to _eat_ sometimes as well? Thus far, Will had seen none of the more relaxed version of Mr. Lecter, whom Jimmy had once described as cooking for the household and spending time in their company. Had Will somehow managed to bother Mr. Lecter enough that the man chose to eat his meals elsewhere? Perhaps the master blamed him for the blow to his head now that he had recovered his full senses enough to appraise the accident. 

Worse still -- what if the verbal sparring between them, which in his most untidy, secret emotions Will had dubbed “flirtatious” -- what if therein he had annoyed Lecter by presumptuously giving back every ounce of piquant repartee he received? The energy between them had seemed to build from baffled and overwhelmed annoyance to the sort of conversational friction and physical proximity which made blood run hot. What if Will remembered this wrongly, painting it with his own wish of how it might have been, if the admiration were mutual?

Will forced each breakfast, tea and dinner down over the course of forty-eight hours, his usually delighted palate now struggling to appreciate the excellent fare which he was served. If only he might see the master once more -- merely to apologize, and to make sure any resentments were smoothed over. Yet no opportunity arose for so very long a time, in his youthful and confused assessment of its passage, that Will began to despair he might never again be granted the kindling which infused the same romantic longing he ought to be fighting with all his strength. What if Mr. Lecter never crossed his path again upon this visit, and Will must return to an existence of waiting for the master’s arrival without ever knowing if it would even mean a further interaction between them? Why could he not stop wanting what it was inherently dangerous and wrong to want, when had Will Graham’s inward composition become such a twisted place to live?

His state of inner upheaval, carefully concealed by his sensible demeanor and attentiveness to Abigail’s lessons, finally found relief upon the third evening of Mr. Lecter’s stay at Blackstag. A knock came at his door, just after his bath and as he was preparing to take to his bed for another delightful interlude of complete mental anguish.

“Will,” said Jimmy through the door, “The master has requested your presence in the drawing room.”

Will stood for a moment in a state of alarmed perplexity, in fact still dripping wet from his bath and quite naked, staring at the clock upon the opposite wall. It was eight o’clock. An after-dinner interview with the master in the drawing room? While this was the very last thing he had expected, apart from Mr. Lecter darkening his bedroom door in the midnight hour to enact an exciting seduction, Will could not be more elated -- and terrified.

Despite his distraction, Will’s quick analytical perception told him that Jimmy was using his primly hesitant voice, the one that only came along when he was giving an order he really did not care to bestow, or in this case, perhaps passing on an invitation of which he did not entirely approve. _That_ was another intriguing, if mildly upsetting, piece of the puzzle. Did Jimmy really allow his awareness of differing social positions to make him cast a stern eye upon private conversation between master and teacher? Was there some other element about the scenario which caused Jimmy this quietly palpable sense of burgeoning alarm?

“Will?” Jimmy repeated, impatient this time, making Will realize he had not answered at the first call.

“Dear me,” he muttered, saying more loudly, “Thank you, Jimmy! I will make haste to the drawing room as soon as I am able.”

The housekeeper departed, and Will made a frantic inventory of his pathetic wardrobe, settling out of unfortunate necessity for a dark blue suit which had really been rather nice when his older schoolmate had first acquired it as a Christmas gift from parents who were guilty for sending their son away to the highly dubious education of Wolftrap. Now, after two years in his classmate’s possession and three more in Will’s own, the jacket sleeve had two patches, sewn as neat and precise as Will could manage, but still the fabric which rendered the repair was a shade lighter than the original, even with the fading of time. It could not be helped, any more than Will could find recourse for his feet other than to thrust them into one of several pairs of wool socks he owned which were altogether too tight for anything resembling comfort. Hurriedly, he tied up his black shoes, which had been on their last legs prior to the accident with Mr. Lecter, but now were past the pale, the soles nearly peeled away by the harsh journey homeward with his master leaning on him. Not that he regretted the damage when so sweetly earned --

“Oh, for goodness sake,” he chided under his breath, ending his ridiculous near-collapse into another reverie, and conveying himself on a wing and a prayer to the study.

He knocked, was admitted, found the master seated behind a large mahogany desk, busily employed with some papers. Gulping, Will took a moment to observe the rest of the room, which surrounded them in cobalt wallpaper, deeply embossed in a paisley pattern. Above the fireplace there hung a huge painting which had for some reason been turned to the wall, only the back of the frame displayed. A clock upon the mantel clicked the seconds away with an insistence that seemed deafening and nearly threatening somehow, perhaps because of Mr. Lecter’s utter silence at Will’s arrival. There were two elegant, deep blue couches set before the fireplace, and a footstool beside them, upon which leaned Abigail Hobbs. The little girl sat with her back to the low stool, the frilly skirt of her dress blossomed out around her, busily investigating a series of gifts all wrapped in shining paper and bows. 

“Good evening, Mr. Graham!” Abigail grinned, displaying a new dress by laying the pretty purple garment against herself with a sigh of delight. “Only see what lovely presents Mr. Lecter has brought me from Vienna!”

“That is very beautiful, Abigail,” Will smiled, slightly relieved by her reassuringly innocent presence in the room, but then his eyes drifted back to Mr. Lecter’s severe expression and lack of eye contact, which sent a chill down his spine. “Good evening, Mr. Lecter,” he added awkwardly.

“Mr. Graham,” Lecter replied, smooth and mysterious once again. 

In his own space and element, Lecter was intimidatingly dazzling, hair once again tucked into a careful ponytail, pristine white shirt set off by the maroon of a waistcoat that brought out a similar shade in his dark eyes by firelight. As his jacket had been eschewed and sleeves folded above his wrists, likely due to the warmth of the room, Will was privy to the lines of his strong biceps and forearms, and once again observant of the large hands, lined with veins, which within his own recent memory had clasped his face, engulfing him in heat, then slid ice over his eager, aching skin.

Will felt his eyes growing large as saucers while the back of his neck prickled with sweat and his heartbeat gained speed; thankfully these reactions were unremarked upon by his distant master, who barely glanced in his direction.

Or so it seemed.

“You’re wearing your hair differently,” the master observed with his eyes trained firmly on his work, “Mr. Graham.” The belated addition of Will’s formal title seemed to occasion Mr. Lecter pause. “Slicked back from your face.”

“Ah, well, yes,” Will replied with a confused laugh that came out sounding coarse and nearly hysterical. _Good gracious, what is the matter with me?_ “I’ve just had a bath, and so it’s still. A bit wet,” he explained, realizing too late that he was describing his naked and wet activities, which was probably a mistake. Perhaps if he cleared his throat, it would seem less awkward?

Mr. Lecter looked up at him with a nod that felt like a minuscule scolding. “Why do you not sit down?” he asked bluntly.

 _Because I have not been asked!_ Will’s baffled nerves morphed into anger and annoyance, causing his cheeks to turn pink as the unspoken accusation flashed in his eyes. He sat down on the couch furthest from his master’s desk while Abigail went on opening her pile of gifts, paying them no attention at all. She was used to being alone, especially when among the adults in her life, that much was clear. 

Looking surprisingly chastened by Will’s demeanor, Mr. Lecter added more politely, “I am quite tired from a long day of business, Mr. Graham; I beg you to excuse my lapse in manners. May I offer you a glass of claret?”

For some reason, the idea of imbibing whilst in Mr. Lecter’s presence sounded like a naughty proposition, and very, very appealing. Will really could not fathom why this attraction would not flee his heart when confronted by Lecter’s more aggravating qualities, but here he was, on the edge of his senses all over again. His hurt feelings and irritation only compounded the longing, as putting pressure on a wound gives a certain perverse pleasure.

“N-no thank you, sir, I really shouldn’t indulge at this hour.”

“Really?” Lecter sounded subtly disappointed, making Will’s heart skip a beat. “I always find that a glass of wine after dinner helps me to relax into the evening. A prospect which is not always an easy one for me.”

“No, it isn’t easy,” Will pondered, his nervousness fading a bit as the natural intrigue of Lecter’s conversation drew him in. “Especially when one considers that night is our only time designated for leisure, it is difficult to feel as one should. Night time obligates us to feel a comfort and repose which may not be reachable, and an ability to set aside the concerns of the day which may be equally impossible.”

“Quite so,” Mr. Lecter smiled, and such a genuine smile it was, charming, sophisticated, but perhaps a little shy. The corners of Will’s lips turned up in response, pleased as much by the smile as the way his master did not correct him when Will had compared their nightly routines, although their stations were so disparate. 

“Will you then allow me the honor?” Lecter asked, dangling the dark bottle of wine over a small, dainty glass to match his own, full of velvety liquor.

“Very well, I suppose you have won me over,” Will said with a low laugh, accepting the glass of wine when it was handed to him, accompanied most beguilingly with a brush of the master’s hand against his own.

“Is that difficult?” Lecter lingered, leaned into Will’s space for just a moment, then sat upon the couch across from him. “Winning you over?”

_Well, obviously not where you are concerned, you pretentious, inscrutable, gorgeous conundrum of a man!_

Will shook his head. “I try to remain open to all friendships, and friendly acquaintanceship, as may be appropriate or available with consideration to my place in society.”

He took a long sip of the claret, finding it silky with notes of oak, chocolate and vanilla, smooth and sweet. The drink did indeed help to still the inclination to fidgeting and worrying which otherwise might have occupied him throughout the interview. 

“And what exactly is your place in society, Mr. Graham?”

“I have none, sir. I am a teacher. Therefore, I may neither aspire to high society, nor claim a place among the servants.”

“But where do you come from, that you have found yourself wedged into that paradoxical status?” Lecter’s hands remained calmly folded, but he sat forward as if riveted.

“I come from Yorkshire, from Lockheed Hall. My parents both died during my infancy, and I was left upon the hands of my Aunt Lavinia.”

“I see.” Lecter’s tongue dragged his lower lip for a second, his gaze flickering to Will’s eyes. “I myself was orphaned, though eight years on from birth, and taken in by my aunt and uncle. They were kind to me. Was your Aunt Lavinia kind to you, Mr. Graham?”

Will glanced down at Abigail, as the answer was not the most pleasant one to expose to a child’s hearing. She had actually drifted off to sleep, curled atop her assortment of new frocks and with two stuffed bears cradled in her thin white arms. He smiled and continued the narrative in all due frankness.

“She was not. My aunt always detested me, I never knew why. Perhaps it was because I often clashed with her son, a rather despicable brat named Mason. He bullied me relentlessly, and when I retaliated my Aunt would tell everyone who listened that I was a horrible, deceitful child. But I was not deceitful.” 

Humor sparkled in Lecter’s eyes at Will’s intentional omission of defending the “horrible” accusation. By the crackling glow of the fireplace, the elegant contours of Lecter’s face were like loving brushstrokes of the finest artist’s work over a magical canvas. For a moment, the presence of this man across from him, almost near enough to touch, seemed unreal.

“Your frankness impresses me,” Lecter admitted. “You would answer anything I posed to you with perfect bluntness and clarity?”

“Certainly,” Will allowed. “I have no reason to exaggerate for better or worse. I merely am as you see, aspiring to nothing better but claiming nothing less.”

“I shall try it as an experiment, then.” The master’s eyes crinkled when he smiled more broadly, engaged by Will’s readiness to meet him head-on in conversation. “Do you think me handsome, Mr. Graham?”

Will swallowed back a scream. “No, sir,” he said flatly, withdrawing his eyes despite Lecter’s magnetic draw on his very soul. 

After all, how could he possibly apply such a bland, weak description as “handsome” to the person of Mr. Hannibal Lecter? It was utterly insubstantial, and perhaps there really were no words to properly convey the disconcerting, manly, absorbing, stunning individual who sat so close and yet so far, asking a question which it was only barely acceptable for him to pose as a joke.

Of course Mr. Lecter could not merely be called “handsome.” Nobody could be that handsome.

***

Coming from anyone else, the answer would have been a mortal error in judgment as well as conveying perilously poor aesthetic appreciation, but from Will...Hannibal found it shockingly charming. What honesty, what total lack of ego or aspiration to ingratiate himself to a wealthy employer through the sort of sycophantic professions which normally formed his most frequent source of tiresome conversation. 

Will Graham was a delectable challenge, a continual source of inspiration, fire in his belly and coursing through his veins, black flowers bursting to life all over his overfull heart, an _equal._

“I suppose I have all my natural human features, and my limbs are in the correct places, basically in proportion?” Hannibal ventured wryly, noticing how the boy’s cheeks flushed, partly from the warm room and wine, mainly from the way his master’s words occasioned a longer lingering of wide blue eyes upon the figure of his employer.

“Yes, sir, of course. You must forgive me, but I do not base my judgement of others upon their physical appearance. To do so is to invite a shallow understanding of the world. ‘Beautiful’ and ‘handsome’ are words of little consequence to me, and perhaps fearing their misleading nature, I have never formed any exacting definition to myself as to what they mean.”

“It is entirely subjective,” Hannibal noted, setting his empty glass down and regarding the boy with such hungry eyes, he was surprised the unspoken, darkly glittering desire did not send Will running. He had, of course, completely forgotten his best laid plans of cold disregard for the teacher, as if the resolve to be above this sort of obsession had never existed. “Do you believe yourself to be handsome, for example? I will not judge _you,_ Mr. Graham, as long as your response is honest.”

“I?” Will chuckled, touching his heart, then taking another sip of wine to steel himself against the inquiry. “Certainly not. I am plain as the day is long, sir.”

“You?” Hannibal repeated incredulously. He leaned forward more, examining the perfect, heavenly features of the boy’s face, the cherubic lips and vivid eyes, the smooth, pale cheeks tinged in rose pink. The thick dark hair, slowly beginning to dry and curl again, soft and enticing, the lithe, exquisite figure, not one single detail which was not exceptionally beautiful. “You truly believe yourself plain?” 

Hannibal kept reasonably calm, although the realization of Will’s belief that he was "plain" overwhelmed him with the desire to spoil and worship. 

“Of course,” Will said, shrugging now, as if the subject was indifferent to him.

“Why do you think so?” 

“Everyone has always told me so, ‘for my own good,’ you see, so that I would not go out into the world thinking I had any particularly magnificent fate to pull me from obscurity. My Aunt, the teachers at school, they all informed me that I was quite unremarkable as to appearance, and ought embody the appropriate humble disposition in result.”

“But...your schoolmates, none of them informed you of any different perception regarding your so-called ‘plainness’?”

Will’s brow furrowed in thought. “Well, no, but in fact, contradicting the school masters’ proclamations was a perilous endeavor, which none of my friends would have attempted whilst knowing that if they were overheard, they would receive the switch and possibly miss a few meals. Then again, I can hardly fathom why my classmates would have felt compelled to do any such thing, as in this case I always believed the proclamation to be a correct one. I may not have appreciated the continual punishment for my _deceptive_ and _conniving_ nature, which arose from my Aunt’s insistence that the school masters continue raking me over those particular coals. But I can muster a bit of gratitude for the humility and realistic expectations which the understanding of my own plainness has instilled. Owing to that, I have focused myself on studying and bettering my intellect, which is a far better goal in life, and for which occupation I thank the Lord. Many boys from my upbringing might not have the chance to so deeply nurture the academic pursuits.”

Hannibal’s mouth fell slightly open as anger coursed through him, carefully contained in a brief flinch and a momentary tightening of his hand on the side of the couch. He had heard enough tales of woe about reformatory schools in this part of the country, echoing from the local farmers and townspeople, but there was something suddenly different about knowing this specific abuse which had been rendered to Will’s mind at such a tender age.

“You are free to decide for yourself what you may find physically pleasing,” Hannibal advanced emphatically. “That is half the merit of being young, surely, to have time to decide such things. Such matters may define one’s choice in companions and certainly for an aestheticist such as myself, it inspires my choice of artistic subject.”

“You are an artist, sir?” Will asked excitedly. He had attended the whole speech with a growing sense of conflict in his face, but this last statement had him riveted. 

“I have long enjoyed a hobby of sketching the beauty which I observe in the world around me, and when I can find none in reality, I take it from the pages of my favorite books.” He reached behind him to procure a portfolio from the desk. 

“May I?” Will smiled, turning attentively through the sketches which Hannibal had used to fill many a lonely and desolate hour. “Beautiful.” Will admired a sketch of a chateau, then a portrait study of ballerinas practicing at the barre. “You have taken a small piece of every place to which you’ve travelled, captured it forever.”

_Yes. It is as if you are reading my diary._

“Your lines are so precise,” Will observed thoughtfully, running his finger down a rose-clustered trellis, a remnant of Hannibal’s memory-version of Lecter Castle and its splendid gardens. “And your shading. I love to sketch as well, yet I’ve never been able to achieve such a lifelike effect. I almost feel I could stroke the dew from these rose petals, smell their sweetness.”

“Why don’t you keep that one?” Hannibal smiled, “I must have drawn those roses a dozen times.”

Will’s face underwent the most heart-wrenching transformation, as if Hannibal had handed him the whole of his personal fortune and the deed to the estate. “Really?” He asked, pressing the sketch to his heart in the same way that Abigail, not so long ago had pressed her new dress against herself in delight. So innocent, so surprised by every kindness. 

Hannibal could have wept. He was discovering layers and layers of pained tenderness inside himself, unearthed by Will as easily as the boy drew breath, but without the teacher understanding his own power at all.

“Of course,” he nodded, his voice a bit gruff. “Now then, I’ve kept you up late enough, I think, Mr. Graham.”

If he kept Will here any longer, he knew he could not answer for his own behavior. Look how rapidly his insistent reserve -- thick iceclad defenses barring everyone else out -- had melted before Will’s very eyes, simply with a few minutes of his presence. Look how his decision to remain rigid, unconcerned, and lofty had ended in this abominable softness in his soul, but he could not tell what Will was thinking! And it drove him wild, kept him quiet for several moments wherein Will admired the drawing in his hands and considered Hannibal’s statement.

“What was your aim in inviting me here this evening, sir?” Will inquired.

“To ascertain your suitability and qualifications to continue as teacher to Abigail.” Hannibal stood, took their wine glasses to his desk and set them down there, an unnecessary procedure as the servants would have cleared it away, but it gave him something to do with his hands aside from drawing Will near and kissing his lips, hearing what gasps he might draw from the teacher. 

“Are you satisfied, then?”

“I require several more interviews to fully canvass the matter.” Hannibal was pleased with himself for the inspiration which helped him contrive another excuse to speak with Will like this, deep into the night in the quiet solitude of the drawing room. 

Will, however, misunderstood, allowing his insecurities to overpower the clever instinct which would otherwise make his master’s meaning quite clear. 

“I see. I do promise that I am completely devoted to Abigail’s education, and furthermore her happiness here at Blackstag. I think that in time, you will see I am the right educator for this position.”

“Mr. Graham.” Hannibal paced from the desk to the fireplace, rested an arm on the mantel, wrapped a hand about his face and stroked his chin. There was nothing for it. That pout, those stormy eyes would be the end of him. “Can’t you see me hiding from you? Concealing my wish to enjoy your company behind official excuses.”

“Oh.” Will looked entirely shocked by his candor, especially after all of the smoke and mirrors his master had employed to keep him at arm’s length. “Do you mean that you wish to be friends?”

 _Friends._ It was closer than Hannibal should let himself go, and nowhere near close enough to bring him satisfaction. Like a moth to the flame, he nodded, “Yes. I confess that I have been living so independently these many years...I do not know how to…”

“Make a friend?” Will asked, smiling brightly. “I think you just did, Mr. Lecter. If you will have me.”

“It would be my honor and pleasure.” Hannibal looked down at his ward, recognizing the chance to change the subject and give a little relief to the pressure on the wound of his infatuation. “What should we do about her? Will she be fine sleeping in the drawing room, do you think?”

“I think we ought to bring her to bed,” Will suggested. “Do you usually allow her to stay up this late?”

Hannibal nodded. “As late as she likes. I never saw the harm.”

“Sir, she is far too young to keep these hours and should be put to bed by eight o’clock at the latest.” Will leaned down and gathered Abigail in his arms. “Come, let’s bring her to her room. I have some further questions for you on the subject, if I may.”

***

In the dim hallway, Hannibal carefully guided Will’s progress towards the little girl’s room by light of the flickering lamp. They slipped into the lilac colored chamber, where a fire bloomed calmly in the grate, and Will placed her on the bed, expertly navigating skinny legs under the blankets without waking her.

“This is a wonderful room,” Will marveled, taking up a spot on the window-seat, which was fringed by gauzy lavender curtains tied off by big bows. 

In fact, the description sounded weak to his own ears, in putting words to such a room. Even in his most extravagant dreams of splendor as a boy, Will never would have thought of this finery. An enormous doll’s house took up most of a whole wall, and was populated by a series of small, dainty porcelain dolls representing every conceivable variety of family member or pet. The furniture within the model home was incredibly realistic, so that Will could almost imagine shrinking to doll size and living a whole life therein. An adorable rocking horse wore a ruffled collar and a friendly smile. The center of the room contained a table and chairs with lacey linens worthy of the most ethereal adult sitting room, and on top sat a stunning silver tea set. A series of stuffed toys and larger porcelain dolls with glossy ringlets had been arranged with utmost care around the table, and Will smiled to think of Abigail’s own little imaginary world. A tall bookshelf comprised stiff new volumes of every children’s classic, and Will did not have to open the opulent wardrobe to imagine the luxuries within.

Hannibal sat on the opposite end of the windowseat, looking as if he half-expected a scolding. “I am prepared,” he said with a sly smile, “To heed carefully your advice regarding my arrangements for Abigail.”

“Good,” Will said in a small huff of pride and amusement, sparking off of the master’s warm, inviting manner. Slowly he was learning how to understand Lecter’s mild teasing, that it came from a wish to make them both smile at themselves, not from any mockery of Will. He was learning to like the feeling of his employer’s teasing, in fact, too much, as if it were a glow for him to bask in.

But as to the matter at hand, he realigned himself quite sensibly (or admirably so, considering the circumstances which had brought them closer than he could have anticipated, after two days of thinking himself an annoyance).

“I can see that you have tried to provide everything Abigail may want or need,” Will began sensitively, and sincerely. “She has beautiful clothes, lovely playthings, access to education and exertion. Yet I cannot help observing that in many matters which are more at the forefront of her well-being, you have been neglectful.”

“Because I have allowed her to stay up late at night?” Hannibal inquired, feeling out of depth. He had come out of hiding, at least temporarily, held with Will in the mysterious play of nighttime shadows, the sense of rules loosening after a certain hour. And he did not have his usual staunch egotism to shield him from the honest rebuke. 

“Yes. And more to the point, you have not hired a personal maid for the girl. Mr. Lecter, Abigail needs a lady in the house who can tend to her, help her to dress and to learn her manners, ease the isolation of this place. She is the only child here, and the only girl in sight. You must realize she has had to dress herself since arriving.”

Hannibal frowned. “I assumed she knew how.”

“You have purchased her such extravagant attire, all of which she loves. Yet I confess that even at my own age, I would struggle to get myself into that sort of dress without assistance.”

“I see,” Hannibal mused. “And it is true that there is no other girl about the house to provide her company, or teach her manners.”

“Forgive the intrusion, if it is one, sir, but why do we see so little of Miss Chiyoh?” Will inquired. “I heard the most heartbroken cries emanating from the attic the night before last that I quite feared for her health.”

“Oh, as to that.” Hannibal’s frown grew more profound, and he stared at the opposite wall, concocting an excuse. On this subject, he absolutely must stay in hiding. “I will speak to Chiyoh about the noise.” 

An incredibly vague response, not verifying whether the wails came from Chiyoh or someone else. It was not a lie and it was not the whole truth. 

Will nodded solemnly. “If I may be of any help in the matter, I beg you would let me know.”

“Certainly, but Chiyoh is a sister to me. I can manage it, please do not concern yourself. And I will send for a maid, for Abigail. Thank you for your candor.”

“There is something else.”

Hannibal gave a low snort of fond annoyance. “Is there indeed?”

“I think you should spend more time with Abigail.” Will raised his eyebrows and interrupted when Hannibal opened his mouth to make an excuse. “ _Not_ time spent in giving her more lavish presents. They may be lovely, but what she needs is the affection and company of her guardian.”

“That I cannot provide,” Hannibal insisted darkly. He looked down at his own hands, limp on his knees. He shook his head. “I am sorry, but there you ask too much. I have my reasons, and they are serious ones.”

“Very well, sir. I thank you for hearing me out, at least.”

Will was disappointed, and it immediately made Hannibal want to move heaven and earth to be the sort of man he could, by nature, _never_ be. Anger with himself, frustration with Will’s untouchable ideals, and confusion at the swirl of amorous feelings, all of it made him want to smash the window to bits, or reach over, take Will’s hand and kiss it with all the warmth inside him that crushed his heart.

“I will tell you the story of why, when we speak tomorrow evening,” Hannibal blurted before he could stop himself. “If you will hear _me._ ” Will nodded with the utmost respect.

“Then we shall let the matter drop for tonight.” Hannibal’s eyes traveled over the shining wood floor, scouring the bloody mess of his life story for unavailable answers. After years of selfishness, could he really learn to care for someone else, even care enough to reveal himself fully? “May I accompany you to your room?”

“Why?” 

Hannibal glanced at Will to find nervous eyes and a gulp in the boy’s throat. He only then understood Will was asking his intentions.

_Because you are equally lovely by moonlight as by fireglow._

“Because it is late, cold and dark, and I want to see you to your door. Perhaps I wish to delay being alone in the hall,” he suggested with a theatrical shiver that eased the tension between them when Will laughed softly.

“Very well, then.” 

Hannibal wished they might walk the unfortunately short distance arm in arm, almost regretted the lack of a new injury to let him wrap an arm around Will again.

They had arrived at Will’s door before the next unaccountable lapse in judgement loosened Hannibal’s tongue. Usually his tongue was a forked, devilish force used to craft words of subtle menace which formed murderous traps. Not tonight, not with Will.

“Will, your aunt and your schoolmasters lied to you.”

It was the first time he had called the teacher by his Christian name, and they both felt the impact of it, before Will fully processed the rest of his master’s words.

Hannibal’s voice had become a raspy thing, echoing off the walls as Will stared at him. “What do you mean, sir?”

“It is unforgivably cruel, what has been done to you. They told you that you are plain because they saw that you are beautiful. Not only beautiful, by any commonly beheld standard. But transcendently, unforgettably beautiful. I am sure that they resented your dazzling qualities, especially combined with your talents.”

Will shook his head, that endearing crinkle appearing in his brow while his teeth pierced his lip. “Mr. Lecter, you should not…”

“Please understand, I do not tell you this because it is my intention to seduce you.” 

Hannibal felt his own face reddening, with the relief of seeing Will’s do the same. 

“I tell you this,” he continued seriously, “Because it troubles me that a repeated abuse of your young mind has led you to misinterpret your own reflection. Knowing that you are beautiful need not tamper with your careful values, your humility, your integrity and strength of mind. It is simply something that you ought to know.”

Will held the doorframe of his room too tightly, letting out a low moan of anguish. 

“Are you well?” Hannibal asked worriedly. It struck him that it was a reckless act to suddenly tear away the veil separating Will from an accurate image of his own appearance, that the shock must be too much for the boy to bear. “Perhaps I should not have --”

Will looked at him searchingly, as if he saw straight through Hannibal’s face, all the way through his brain to the back of his skull, wrenching free every single blood-streaked secret, every horrible crime, all the amorous feelings tearing him apart. “You,” he said desperately. “ _You._ ”

With that, the boy’s eyes rolled back; his hand fell clumsily from the doorway as he crumpled towards the floor, entirely insensible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Will Graham doesn't faint, is it even an EarthsickWithoutYou production? 😄
> 
> Next time: The aftermath of the young teacher's collapse, and later, a second interview brings more revelations to light between Hannibal and Will ❤️
> 
> Thanks for reading! 💕


	5. Chapter 5

_“Thank goodness the master was there to catch him.”_

Hmm. Slowly emerging to consciousness from a thick stupor, Will recognized the voice. It belonged to Brian Zeller. Unsurprisingly, as Will gradually understood himself to be in bed with his eyes still shut, the next voice he heard was that of Jimmy Price.

“ _Indeed. Although one wonders what in the world the two of them were doing consorting in the hall outside Will’s bedchambers at such an hour of the night._ ”

“ _Does one wonder? And what are you usually doing when you consort with me outside my bedchambers at such an hour of the night?"_

A low chuckle, as if Jimmy could not resist responding in kind to Brian’s flirtation. “ _Or inside your bedchambers, for that matter."_

Will allowed his eyes to flutter open, deciding he should not listen to any more of this private conversation without letting it be known he was awake. 

“Oh, there you are, young Mr. Graham,” Jimmy smiled warmly. 

Will sat up, seeing that he was in his own room, and that the two chairs opposite the bed were occupied by housekeeper and butler. “What happened to me?” he asked.

“You fainted,” Brian informed him, “The master was able to determine the cause, as once he helped you to bed and called to us for help, he observed that your socks were so tight as to cut off the flow of blood from your ankles down.”

Will glanced around the room as memories of the night before flew back into place, shards of stained glass composing an unforgettable experience --

“ _unforgettably beautiful…_ ”

Had Mr. Lecter truly said those words to him? Will’s brow furrowed as through bleary eyes, he scanned the environs in concern before finally he noticed the folded paper of Mr. Lecter’s sketch, which had been taken (doubtless by the artist himself) from Will’s jacket pocket and placed subtly on the table by his bed, half-concealed beneath his volume of Keats. He let out a sigh of relief.

“You seem fine now,” Jimmy said crisply. “I’m certain you will have no need for further assistance from--”

“How is he?” said a quiet and formal voice from the door, an emanation of rumbling, deep tone that occasioned Will mingled joy and self-consciousness. 

Mr. Lecter came into the room, his face aglow when he saw Will sitting with his eyes open and able to converse. “You are awake.”

Jimmy looked at Brian as that same disapproval in the housekeeper’s eyes made Will feel almost ashamed of himself, as if he had been so absurdly presumptuous as to actually try and engage the master in romance. He felt hurt by the assumption and cast his eyes down at his blanket, his hands tangled atop them. 

Zeller and Price made a quiet departure from the room, nothing more than a glance from their master being required to inform them of this necessity.

“I’m...wearing socks now.” Will reached down and touched the soft, warm wool around his feet, puzzled. Instead of too small, these socks were a bit too big. “They are not mine.”

“They are mine, or they used to be. Now they are yours,” Lecter explained, taking up the chair beside his bed which Jimmy had vacated. Somberly he added, “Your own were hurting you, Will. And it is too cold to sleep barefoot, even with the fire so near.”

Will blushed and groaned in further embarrassment. He was still wearing his white shirt and blue trousers, so at least he had the comfort of knowing Mr. Lecter had not undressed him. He vastly preferred to be awake for that experience -- oh dear, he _must_ try harder not to wish such things -- “Sir, it’s quite mortifying, but…”

“It’s been several years since you’ve had new clothes of your own.”

“More than that,” Will explained. Hannibal’s features were so soft at the moment, it was easy to go on, even as the confession peeled back the skin of his childhood sadness. “I’ve had nothing but hand-me-downs from the older boys at Wolftrap, these last eight years. And I had thought, once I received more payment from my new teaching post here, I could use the money to purchase new clothes. Believe me, Mr. Lecter, I wish to uphold the quality of appearance which my place in your house requires--”

“Please.” Lecter covered Will’s hand briefly with his own, stopping the younger man from plucking restlessly at the blanket. “Do not be mortified. I am sorry to hear you have been put in such a position by those who had charge of you during your formative years.”

Will heard quiet rage in the master’s voice that made his heart jump, and not with fear but with a strange feeling of identification, that he had found someone whose intense emotions were a match for his own. Someone who apparently cared enough for his welfare as to resent those who had treated him poorly. And that made Will feel gratitude, even if he was a bit loathe to fully blame his past caretakers for the state of his apparel. He had no love for his teachers, but still, he must be absolutely honest.

“After all, what could they do? No one from home sent me money for clothes, and the schoolmasters were poor themselves…”

Mr. Lecter shook his head, seeming to gather himself to stave off a loss of his temper. “You deserve better, that is all I meant to convey.” He pressed his lips together for a moment before adding, “I was very concerned that I might have contributed to your ill health last night by saying what I did just before you fainted…”

Will could hardly believe that what he witnessed could be true. That this intimidating, powerful man sat beside him mild as a lamb, caught up in worry for his problems. No one had ever asked him about these matters, much less tried to resolve the resulting insecurities of his complicated childhood.

“No, sir, please set your mind to ease regarding that. I know you meant only kindness, and I’m sure the swoon was brought about only by my circulatory issue, now thankfully resolved.”

Will did remember every word which the master had said, and if he was going to be fanciful, he might admit that the ardent speech had been at least partially responsible for the fainting. However, he was a sensible, useful young man, and should not fall upon such silly ideas.

Mr. Lecter released a sigh which turned into a gentle smile. “And do you now believe yourself beautiful? Or still plain?”

“I don’t know what to think.” Will’s cheeks felt hot, and the way his master gazed upon him brought goosebumps to his skin. “Except to say that such a question is entirely subjective.”

“Equally as subjective as the topic of my handsomeness, or lack thereof.” 

Will laughed, “Yes, exactly,” wondering if Mr. Lecter guessed how he really felt about the latter subject.

***

After dinner that evening, Will felt better able to prepare himself for the interview to follow. The appointment did not come as a surprise this time, although the unaccustomed delirium of excitement which the mere thought provoked required some acclimation on his part. 

How could he help smiling to himself, as after his bath he selected another of the pairs of socks which had been lent to him by the master? It did not even bother him to put on a faded suit from his collection, as obviously his lackluster apparel did nothing to lesson Mr. Lecter’s opinion of him. Buttoning his shirt, he looked in the mirror and allowed himself to briefly contemplate the notion of his own “beauty” for the first time in his life.

Was it possible? He tilted his head to one side, examined his bright eyes, which in this moment were seafoam green, and considered their tendency to change color along with the shifting of light, as well as their fringe of long, dark lashes. The contours of his nose, his smooth jawline and chin...they were regular enough, certainly nothing to repulse. He stroked his lips, feeling their shape, then trailed his fingers down his long neck, across his delicate collarbone. 

Will realized he no longer felt the touch of his own hand, but that of Mr. Lecter. Vividly, he imagined the master standing behind him, gazing upon their reflections in the glass, dragging his firm fingers with teasing, slow, loving fervor over the lines of Will’s face and body, lowering his mouth to place lingering kisses on Will’s neck. He shivered, understanding it was possible to _feel_ beautiful because someone else treated him in a certain way, even if he could not relate to a term which had never before had anything to do with him. Lecter could be more than a friend, perhaps in time...not a lover, outside his secret dreaming, but...a confidante. Someone with whom Will could share some of the strangest problems which had long weighed on his mind and conscience. One day, perhaps he could even tell Lecter about the nightmares...images of ash, fog, branches snapped underfoot as he ran feral through blood-blackened forests, his jaw and hands aching from…

_Oh, God, how could I ever tell him?_

For so much worse than all the shame of his early life, than being cast aside by his relations and treated abominably thereafter at school, was the secret torment of his sweet nightmares. The ravishing ecstasy of the _hunt,_ human skulls crushed beneath the heel of his boot, still-beating hearts throbbing in his grip before he squeezed them to bursting. No one would ever understand, they would think him worse than mad...they would think him a hideous monster.

He let himself taste another fleeting moment of pining for recognition and acceptance, and in that moment the glass seemed to reflect a joined image of his own face with the master’s -- their features melded as one. Then the clock struck eight with a distinct, reminding chime, and he scrambled for his comb, swiping his unruly wet curls back from his brow, hastening lest he be late.

***

“How old are you, Mr. Graham?” Lecter inquired at the beginning of their second evening interview.

Will had observed Abigail’s absence from the room for this conversation, and he had noticed Lecter retreating back behind his formalities -- his cool demeanor, brusque and surprising questions. This time, however, he understood the behavior as a defensive one, inspiring Will only to prove through friendship that it was unnecessary, he could be trusted; he would not take and abuse the master’s confidence. He would treasure it.

“I am eighteen, sir.” Will sat down on his same couch, silly really for him to consider it his own after only one previous occasion of their talks, but he could not help the whimsical notion. Beside him on the couch was his own portfolio of drawings, which the master had asked him to bring along, yet had left for the time being untouched. Will felt like the drawings, strokes of art swept restlessly along the paper, begging to be seen and _touched._

“Are you truly so young?” Lecter asked gloomily. 

Oh, this mysterious master and his walls, his sadness, strife and bitterness.

“Indeed, you cannot have thought me much older. I know my naïveté on several key subjects has already drawn your attention to my inexperience in the adult realm.”

“I think you wiser than many a so-called mature adult whom I have encountered, and I am exceptionally well traveled,” Lecter remarked, tossing the compliment off as a point of fact. 

He must not have guessed that Will would catch at every small sign of his regard like a morsel of food granted a starving man in the desert. Will smiled and blushed, and Lecter stood stiffly, walked about the room in a way that might have been called “meandering” if he did not possess such elegant posture and comportment, making his every motion appear planned and logical.

“Thank you sir.”

“How old do you think me?”

Will suppressed a chuckle; why was he being so very serious? The teacher wanted back their soft intimacy from the night before, but reasoned he could be very, very patient in waiting to slip behind his master’s defenses once more.

“You are perhaps forty years old,” he guessed.

“Yes, yes, with your usual adeptness you have hit exactly on the truth.” Lecter paused with his hand clenched around the back of his desk chair, his face pivoted to look into the dark night sky through a sliver in the curtains. “Perhaps you are too young, too tender. I hesitate to foist a confidence upon you which may scandalize--”

“Sir,” Will insisted, “I am not easily scandalized. You may speak freely.”

“May I?” Lecter turned to face him, torn by some unspoken conflict. “I am an atheist, you know.”

Will took a sip of wine and held the glass with his very best manners, endeavoring to appear _mature._ “Many men are.”

“It’s more severe than atheism, in point of fact, my view of God. I do not disbelieve his existence; I despise Him. I blame Him for creating us merely to suffer, I hold Him responsible. He places us in this world full of beauty and horror only to run through the rapid time of our short life-spans, unable to ever fully enjoy a single part of it. As soon as we put a hand on something to treasure, to bring happiness, He snatches it away.”

Will swallowed hard. These were serious statements, and if he had breathed a word of such beliefs at Wolftrap, he shuddered to imagine the consequences. Still, he endeavored to balance calmness and sincerity in his response. 

“I believe it is not for us to question the Lord’s plans or reasons, much less His unending love--”

“ _His_ unending love?” Lecter snapped, angry not with Will but the creator. “What does He know of love, judging us on high as to how we bear his cruel burdens? What does He know of love, compared to _my_ love? How I have loved and lost, and grieved, not only is it beyond His comprehension, but He does not deserve to know of it, I don’t want His relief or redemption. I’d prefer a fate of hellfire.”

“Sir,” Will sighed, “I grieve in turn for your ordeals, but you do not deserve such a dire fate.”

“Don’t I? Hmm? Do you know what I have done, what I think of doing again all too soon?” Lecter exhaled sharply, clamped his eyes shut, collected himself. 

Will had the unenviable task of trying to appear unaffected by the master’s words, “compared with _my_ love.” It was sacreligious in the extreme, it was a sin for Will even to allow such words to pass unchided in his presence, yet all he could do was crave for such a love to be poured out over him, a love to defy the heavens and obliterate all human law.

“Tell me, then,” Will asked, hearing the plea in his own voice as it made Lecter open his eyes, looking quietly desperate.

“I said I would tell you why I cannot be a constant presence in Abigail’s upbringing.” The master poured himself another glass of wine and dragged his finger along the lip of the glass. “You may as well know there is some chance she is mine. A product of the affair between myself and her mother. I do not, however, believe she is my child.”

“Who was Abigail’s mother?” Will asked, wanting to choke on the heart now lodged in his throat. Sickened with jealousy, he thought this must be the one whom Lecter loved with that almighty passion.

“She is a dancer, renowned in Paris, worshipped for her extraordinary command of the arts. She makes it look effortless, as if she moves along open air. We shared trysts for years, all the while with me aware I was most likely not her only paramour. When Abigail was born, Camille assured me she was my own. I did not want to believe it, as I am unsuited to the role of father, yet I felt a responsibility for the child and supported mother and daughter financially. One evening when I arrived for an unannounced visit, I discovered Camille in the arms of another man.”

“You had suspected her infidelity,” Will remembered, mumbling in a numb state of dread; every word dug him deeper into his own heart’s grave. 

Had Mr. Lecter truly seduced this woman and fathered a child (potentially) without marriage? Had he even proposed to the lady, or had he deemed it beneath him to do so because _she_ was beneath him in social class? It hurt to think the master capable of such petty behavior, destructive and selfish. What love could that be? How could such a man ever love Will?

“Yes, yet the actual fact of it offended me to the core. I am a man of bitter vengeances, Mr. Graham. I consider what is mine to be _mine._ However, I admit that the impulse was more out of my ongoing grievance with the universe and my own lot in life, as I did not love Camille. We enjoyed each other’s company, and I have always cared for Abigail whether or not she is mine. This was...an excuse. To take my wrath out, to be as cruel and destructive as I liked, knowing I would get away unscathed. I killed her lover in cold blood and Camille fled, now terrified of me.” 

“Many would consider you justified in avenging yourself when another man seduced your lover,” Will said in an empty voice. 

“Do you excuse me?” 

“It is not my place to excuse or forgive you.” 

“Ha, of course not,” the master said hoarsely, “That occupation falls to the creator, in the final deliberation.” 

“Be that as it may.” A strange, half-statement, but it was all Will could manage. _Be that as it may, I forgive and excuse you, profanely, defiantly, helplessly._

“Are you scandalized?” Lecter demanded, his eyes wet, “Do you despise me, Mr. Graham, reject my friendship, ask for a letter of reference so you may flee my life as well?” 

“No.” Will shook his head emphatically, his own eyes a bright blue blur of impending tears. “I could never despise you.” 

Lecter’s hand shook; he set his glass down too quickly, causing the jewel-red liquid to swirl and sway, nearly spilling all over his perfectly neat desk. “But why?” he asked tightly, staring at the dribble of wine traveling in a slow bleed down the side of the glass. 

Despite the pain and confusion clutching his heart like a crown of thorns, Will smiled. “Because you are my friend.” 

***

“I have a gift for you,” Hannibal said suddenly.

They had remained in their seats across from one another, looking anywhere but into the other’s eyes, yet never had they seemed closer, sealed into the same vault of fate. Would Will remain there with Hannibal, accept the deadly destiny which caring for an unrepentant, cannibalistic killer might well represent? How could he live with himself, if he allowed Will to be hurt by their closer association, yet how could he hold himself back from the only happiness which had touched his life in so many years? It was worse than withholding a drop of drink from a slobbering, desperate alcohol-addicted fiend, worse than the most agonizing torture his creative mind could devise, to resist Will. 

He had sat there considering these morbid struggles for several minutes, when he finally looked up and noticed Will regarding him carefully, not one hint of hatred or disappointment in his lucid gaze. It was...Will looked concerned for him, but without pity. 

Moved, he spoke of his gift, wanting nothing more than to make some small return of the kindness he had been shown. He could not pleasure Will’s body as he longed to do, in order to show his feelings -- not tonight, so soon into this delicate and complicated friendship, made more so by their respective positions in the household, their relationships to Abigail. It was all much too fragile to risk breaking with his usual harsh passion; he must wait, and hope. _Waiting and hoping_ felt like poison on his tongue, yet his only nourishment.

“For me?” Will was taken out of depths again, but he tried to act otherwise, adorably endearing to Hannibal.

“Come along, then,” Hannibal smiled, feeling better because he had confided in Will and found some acceptance, caring, a safe place to fall. 

Hannibal could forget for a few hours at least, forget that he did not deserve any of that. It was indescribably wonderful to lose himself in such feelings. He was, once again, savoring the dream he never thought himself capable of holding fast and dear in his heart, a heart no longer a desolate, cavernous ravine.

He led Will to the teacher's own room, where he had ordered delivered a vast assortment of parcels from the best clothing stores in town. Having calculated the delivery with the store workers so that the items would arrive during the evening interview, Hannibal was pleased now by the result of his scheming. The paper-wrapped surprises were carefully arranged, piled across Will’s bed and desk, and when the boy entered his chamber, he sucked in a breath of disbelief.

“What in heaven’s name is all this?” He touched one of the parcels as if he fully expected it to disintegrate to dust. 

Did he think himself so unworthy of gifts, attention, care -- loving? Hannibal granted him an encouraging smile, actually a grin, baring his sharp teeth and his excitement at seeing Will open his presents. 

Will had gone quite red in the face, and his hand upon the first parcel was trembling. Yet his appearance of shy disbelief turned into a grin to match his employer's, when he glanced up to see Hannibal standing there looking rather like a boy himself. 

“You had better open that and see,” Hannibal urged in a gentle tease.

“I suppose I had better,” Will smirked, still bashful and shaky, although again these sensations seemed to be soothed by Hannibal’s encouragement.

Will stood by the bed and unwrapped the parcel slowly, as if the very wrapping paper warranted his reverence. He drew out a new white shirt, so new in fact that it was absolutely _bright,_ as opposed to his old shirts which had been washed enough times to fade into a despondent grey. 

“Oh, sir, I hope you have not gone to so much trouble in acquiring...that is to say…” Will gazed at the shirt in bewilderment, rubbing his fingers over the soft fabric. “I am not worth -- I do not require -- It is not necessary…”

Hannibal took Will tenderly by the shoulders and turned the boy to face him. “You are worth every comfort and joy which life has to offer, and _I_ require you to embrace them. It is necessary for me to prevent you spending your salary on new clothing when it delights me to offer you these gifts. You know by virtue of our friendship that I want nothing of you in return, save your acceptance of the offering, if doing so will make you happy.” 

Will was calculating it all through his tortured conscience, attempting to find some way to reconcile his ethical obligations in the case of receiving excessive presents from his employer, with his clear elation at being so thought of and cared for. Hannibal watched the battle playing out in his eyes, which flitted from his own attentive features to the large hands encompassing his shoulders, the shirt in his hands and the remaining gifts spread out over his room. Nothing could be more charming than to consider each intricate, sweet inner working of the teacher’s mind, and no time could be better spent, in Hannibal’s estimation, than in showing the boy how to anticipate and accept treatment such as he deserved, rather than that he had received in the past.

“I suppose it would do no harm for me to open the rest of them,” said Will with a twinkle in his eyes which Hannibal found absolutely naughty. 

_That’s a good boy._ Hannibal repressed the words to his own mind and released Will’s shoulders, reluctant though the need was to relinquish his touch on the gorgeous teacher. “Have at it, then. And you needn’t be so ginger with the wrapping.”

Will laughed and yanked the paper off the next parcel, which proved to be a creme-colored silk puff necktie, soon followed by a waistcoat to match. And then he was grinning and whipping through the presents, even tossing a soft bit of wrapping directly at Hannibal when he opened a package containing a pair of black trousers. Hannibal glowed, immensely pleased at the way Will had relaxed into this experience. Every item given was to the height of fashion and the best in quality. There were many more bundles of ties in different colors and patterns, a black top hat as well as a brown homberg for everyday outings, and suits with more daring shades -- plaids, checks and tweeds, suggesting that Will not only be fashionable, but also show off a bit. Several pairs of shiny new shoes and boots would replace Will’s tattered current pair, and among the sensible sets of striped pajamas, Will discovered a series of white nightshirts with ruffles and ribbons about the sleeves and collar which made him turn pinker and bite his lip.

The teacher would sometimes spend several minutes transfixed by a single item -- an embroidered waistcoat in sapphire blue to match his eyes, a sackcoat of grey herringbone tweed -- and Hannibal remained quietly in the background, allowing him the wonderment which in turn had him feeling that shock of being _alive_ , so alive, living in fact for every variation in Will’s expressions and exclamations.

When Will came to the last package, he discovered the large box was completely filled from top to bottom with socks -- pair after pair in every conceivable color, all of them the softest, warmest sort available. 

“For goodness sake,” Will laughed, knowing the offering to be a merry overcompensation for his earlier collapse due to tight, old ragged socks. He sank down on the bed with two handfuls of socks, still laughing, tears streaming from his eyes out of pure amusement, and Hannibal wanted so terribly, terribly much to go to him, pin him to the bed, kiss him until the boy’s lips were swollen and red as cherries, unfurl him from that tight little suit from his school days, kiss and bite every inch of his beautiful body, bring him to screaming ecstasy, then dress him again as _he_ saw fit, marked and claimed, shown off as his very own sweetheart, his intended.

How one laugh sent Hannibal into a frenzy of emotion and future dreaming, he could not have said, would not have even believed it possible before he first clapped eyes on Will and lost his heart. 

“But sir,” Will objected feebly, wiping the tears from his pretty bright cheeks, “You must know I cannot accept such lavish gifts, grateful as I am for the thought.”

“You must know that I insist,” Hannibal maintained huskily, striding to the bed and hovering above it, aching to touch, painfully restrained in the knowledge that he could shatter the trust and fragile blooming affection between them by moving too quickly. He sat down beside Will in a sea of tissue paper and bows, relishing the brief brush of their shoulders, the proximity of the boy’s shapely thigh to his own leg. “Insist that you do accept them, if it will make you happy.”

“But what will everyone say?” Will said with knitted brow, “Jimmy, the other servants, I am sure they already suspect me of having… _designs_ on you. It upsets me to be thought of in such a small way, as if I seek fortune from our relationship, and how could any of them doubt the origin when I suddenly begin walking about in an entire new wardrobe quite obviously to your own taste and derived from your favorite shops?”

“I do not care what anyone else may say or think,” Hannibal said firmly, “If any of the servants, my cousin included, should speak one word out of line to you, please tell me so that I may discipline them accordingly.”

Will swallowed hard, frozen in place on the bed, his finger absent-mindedly stroking one of the ties.

Hannibal went on softly, “You are my friend, and I care about _your_ opinion, your sense of worth, your joy in life.”

“I am quite overwhelmed that you did all this just for me, sir. So very grateful, I truly cannot form words in proper expression of it. And...inappropriate though it may appear to outsiders, I know it is _not_ inappropriate, and emerges entirely from your regard and wish to make me comfortable here at Blackstag Hall.”

“And so?” Hannibal smiled.

“And so, I bring myself to admit it _would_ make me happy to keep these gifts and wear them.” Will grinned again. “I _shall_ keep them and wear them.”

“Then you make me very happy, Will.” 

He encouraged the boy to try one of his new suits on, and waited in the hall until Will emerged, ravishing in grey tweed woven through with strands of silver, more especially lovely because of the new shimmer of confidence in his mood.

“I left my portfolio in the drawing room,” Will whispered, politely mindful that others in the house might be asleep by now.

Hannibal could barely stand his own obligation not to cup that soft cheek, stroke it and _bite_ that plump bottom lip, suck it until Will’s moans reverberated from the walls. 

“Let us return there, so that I may look over your art,” he said instead with a gentlemanly bow, his arm crooked out to the teacher. “Shall we?”

Will chuckled and slipped his arm through Hannibal’s, making no comment on the breach in proper boundaries between them, carried away on the mood which had them both fairly levitating. Most of all, Will was so trusting, it hurt Hannibal’s heart to think he might one day reveal his own worst nature and demolish their bond. No matter how swept up he felt, Hannibal reminded himself he must continue to hide the full truth of his depraved and taboo habits. He had experimented with showing the boy a slight hint thereto, by revealing his loathing of God, his illicit affair and one isolated occasion of murder. Under the pretext of vengeance, that killing was of the kind which many a man of the world might be excused, so long as it did not become a habit and he covered his tracks well enough to avoid arrest. Duels occurred every day over lesser offenses between rivals, romantic and otherwise, and such an explosion of jealous anger was considered a gentleman’s right. Within reason.

Still, he was astonished with how Will had forgiven his past, continued to offer friendship as if Hannibal remained untarnished in his eyes. A beautiful, brave, remarkable boy. Once, he had assumed the natural recourse for meeting someone so very breathtaking would be to take their breath, eat their heart in tribute. Now, he knew he could never harm Will, would never hurt him in any way unless it was designed to evoke pleasure, if he could ever be so fortuitous as to know Will more intimately, as intimately as possible. He wanted the two of them intertwined so as their breaths and heartbeats were indistinguishable, wanted Will by his side for his vicious nocturnal hunts and the decadent feasts that followed, hedonistic bacchanals. Will would be the dark prince with blood painted lips who reigned over the beast within Hannibal. 

_But that is a fantasy. And you are here with him now. You must stay here, within reason._

He took to his desk for an appraisal of Will’s drawings which he kept affectionately formal. “These are remarkably accomplished, who taught you to sketch?”

“No one, sir,” Will said, nervously adjusting his cuffs as Hannibal turned through the pages of his drawings. “I taught myself, from books. And quite a bit of trouble followed me over the years, when I would be caught sketching during lesson time. Still, it remained my...my escape from that world. I never had to stay at Wolftrap, if I could sketch. Then I could take myself away, visit Paris or Florence, explore cathedrals and museums, learn and absorb and breathe freely.”

“You based these upon pictures in your school books?” Hannibal marveled, examining Will’s rendition of the thin, unpredictably winding streets of Florence, which evoked his own vivid memories of a favorite city. 

The lonely boy had taken the time to populate his drawing with happy, busy folk -- an elderly couple eating ices at a small cafe, children prancing towards an open garden gate, waving festive flags above their heads. Some lines were imprecise, and Will’s practice of proportion as to the size of the buildings and objects was flawed. Yet the heart and soul of the piece spoke to Hannibal, and the potential in the work was, even objectively, undeniable.

“Mmm, yes,” Will murmured, his hand planted to the desk beside Hannibal as he lingered beside his employer.

Hannibal’s skin was already humming a sweet, forbidden melody at the boy’s closeness and the fresh scent of his bath soap, when he turned the page to find a portrait of himself.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, thunderstruck to find his own features portrayed with much more attention to detail than he had observed in any of Will’s other work. 

“Have I offended you with the likeness, sir, or was it presumptuous of me to show it to you?” Will moved to grab the drawing away, but Hannibal caught his hand, stroked his thumb over the throbbing pulse in Will’s wrist, locked his deep brown gaze upon the teacher’s frightened cerulean eyes.

“What are you afraid of, Will?” Hannibal asked, his voice low and raspy.

“I’m...afraid of overstepping my place and losing you in the process,” Will admitted in a rush of quiet anxiety. His long lashes fluttered at Hannibal’s warm touch on his wrist, stern and savoring all at once. 

“Yet you wish to be utterly yourself with me. To be seen,” Hannibal proposed.

Will nodded, as if incapable by now of denying his truth when Hannibal asked. “Yes.”

“I’m not fond of seeing my own likeness in art,” Hannibal admitted, “But I’m glad you showed this to me.” 

He let go of Will and nodded at the painting over the fire, the one turned to the wall. “That is a family portrait. The artist came to Castle Lecter when I was eight, only a few weeks before everything changed. He painted me, my parents and my younger sister Mischa. I might be able to bear her large, clever eyes upon me even now, and the sight of my own idiotic small personage, fumbling through life without the least notion of what would soon befall me. Yet I cannot seem to bear looking at my father. I sense he accuses me with the failure to protect Mischa of which I am guilty...that in his own death he expected me to be the man of the family. I don’t want to see us as we were, not ever again.”

“Yet you leave the painting on the wall, you do not have it removed.” Will crouched before him, placed a tentative hand on one of Hannibal’s warm knees, comforting and surprising him. 

“I cannot chase their ghosts from my life, nor remove the accusation which their images place upon me.” Hannibal’s voice had gone thick. Will’s fingers caressed his knee, slowly, soothing. “I’ve said that I failed Mischa, disappointed my father, and you have not corrected me.”

“I know you were an innocent child, and seeing the good man you are now, I cannot doubt you were anything less than good in the past. It’s my belief you are utterly blameless in the vile actions of terrible men, and that you are an equal victim of that tragic day. But I do not see the usefulness of attempting to force my views upon you.” He considered the matter for another few moments, adorably serious, ineffably wise in his own strange, ethereal way. “I think sometimes we need to speak of our pain, without others telling us how to feel.”

“Thank you, Will.” Hannibal squeezed the teacher’s hand briefly. He did not contest Will’s judgement of him as a “good man,” but it humbled him in a way he felt unprepared to face.

“Can I do anything for you now, sir?” Will asked, so soft, kind and sincere, yet a potent chemistry simmered between them, infusing his words with a sensuous implication. 

Momentarily dizzy with longing, nearly able to taste the pleasure they might share, Hannibal surprised Will by reaching down to pat his belly, finding it rumbling beneath the snug confines of his new waistcoat. There were other appetites which Hannibal _could_ indulge.

“Ah, so it is just as I suspected,” Hannibal said, wiping at his moist cheeks and casting the boy a knowing smile. “You’re famished. Did you not enjoy your dinner?”

“It was wonderful, but I...I was nervous about seeing you afterwards, and I confess I only picked at it. A shameful act on my part, as it is a sin to waste food--” Will was stammering through this speech, as the first confession obviously embarrassed him much more than the second. However, he kept unraveling and revealing himself to Hannibal, who would have it no other way. He thought he would perish on the spot if Will ever withdrew his endearing confidences.

“Hush, you’ve committed no sin. You asked if there is something you can do for me, and I tell you it is to come with me to the kitchen right away.” Hannibal took Will’s hands and stood from his chair, then shifted posture to again offer his arm, as if it now belonged to Will in such moments and could be depended upon.

“Are you going to cook for me, sir?”

“We’re going to cook together,” Hannibal affirmed cheerfully, kicking the demons of the past and present away from his conscious line of thought, wishing nothing more than to live in the moment, as if he were a blameless man free to love as he chose, rather than a bleak threat to this precious young man’s future life.

“A yorkshire pudding, I should think,” he continued, guiding Will from the room and down to the kitchen by lamplight, “Fresh tomatoes and mushrooms, some sausage, and another glass of wine -- just the recipe to send you off to sweet dreams on a full stomach.”

“You spoil me, sir,” Will said bashfully as they entered the kitchen, the room which by day was so bustling with activity that to find it now in a complete hush was eerie. 

Hannibal stared at Will’s lips and almost lost himself entirely to the desire to claim them, but by the narrowest victory, he managed to redirect the urge, taking instead the boy’s soft, pale hand and pressing a kiss to it. “Think nothing of it. I’ve told you, it makes me happy to take care of you. What, after all, are friends for?”

Will stumbled over all possible replies, and Hannibal’s thumbs slid absent-mindedly over his palms, reminding him suddenly of the faint scratch marks he had detected there on the teacher’s sensitive flesh upon the day of their first meeting. At that time, he had assumed them to be some small superficial injury gained from labor or travel. Yet now, as he turned Will’s hands over and looked more closely, his fixation on the angry red scars caused Will to flinch back slightly.

Hannibal understood just as instantaneously that the scars were a matter of embarrassment to the boy, as arising from some past punishment and the sense of his shame. 

“Who has hurt you so?” he asked quietly, his voice strained. 

The woodstove burned warmly beside them, and an early autumn snow began shedding itself like powdered sugar just outside the window, lit by the external torches so that Blackstag felt, as ever, a magical place -- especially at night. Magic places were full of danger in legend, as a voracious reader such as Will would know all too well. There was danger in Hannibal’s tone as he studied the wounds, his eyes gone dark and feral.

“I made my share of trouble at school, as I earlier alluded,” Will confessed. “The masters would strike our palms with a wooden switch when we misbehaved…”

“And what was your misbehavior?” Hannibal stroked one short, deep scar and Will nearly choked out his answer, “I was easily distracted and sometimes drew on my school papers when I was meant to be writing and doing my sums. And I would not hold my tongue when other students were unjustly accosted by the teachers. My attempts to maintain my principles in such matters went, as you can see, unappreciated.”

“All the boys were subject to this same treatment?”

“Yes. I was not singled out in any way, except that my aunt’s stories of my deceitful nature led the schoolmasters to see my every word in defense as a falsehood. But there were boys who had a much worse time of it than me. In general, my quiet disposition protected me from more frequent punishment.”

Hannibal released him, walked around the kitchen trailing his hand on the countertop, the cabinet full of dishes, the small red chair where Abigail would sit when she came in to watch Price and Zeller cook, and wheedle a cookie out of them if she could. He pressed his lips together, feeling hot about the face, murderously invigorated.

“This was standard punishment at the school,” he muttered, investigating the matter until he felt sure he had identified the original culprit, the one to blame. “Your aunt sent you there. Her name is Lavinia…”

“Lavinia Verger,” Will clarified. “She is my mother’s elder sister. I suppose I was a burden, an additional child not her own, foisted upon her care, and we did not get on dispositionally. I do have the satisfaction of remembering how I launched a few long-deferred verbal barbs in her direction when she told me I would be spending the rest of my boyhood at Wolftrap School.”

“Yes,” Hannibal agreed distractedly, not however immune to affectionate images of his Will as a little boy, standing in proud defiance of the wicked aunt. A fairy tale hero, he surely was. “Yes, that must be very satisfying in retrospect.”

He resolved to lighten the mood by opening the icebox to retrieve some key ingredients for their late night meal, and instructing Will as to where the vegetables were kept, in the baskets on the shelf above the stove. As for Lavinia Verger, she would soon regret her past choices.

“Shall I cut up the vegetables?” Will inquired, whisking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. He located an assortment of aprons which hung from hooks by the door and put one on to protect his fine attire.

“Yes, just so, Mr. Graham,” Hannibal agreed, grinning when the teacher tossed him an apron for his own use. He caught it easily and added, “I’ll make the batter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: We'll meet a few of the local farmers, with familiar faces from canon -- not all of them friendly. And some murder family bonding!


	6. Chapter 6

Life went on in this manner for several more weeks, Mr. Lecter doting upon Will yet emotionally always just out of reach. But it was more than enough, it was more of joy and contentment than Will had ever known. Far be it for him to waste the best days of his life with longing for greater intimacy and future security. He could not know that their closeness would not be snatched away at any moment, and perhaps that made it even sweeter, more exhilarating, entirely addicting. 

Following Will’s suggestion, Lecter had sent for a ladies maid to look after Abigail, and Miss Alana Bloom proved a pleasant addition to the household. Alana, with her fresh-faced beauty, bright attitude and capable common sense, soon adapted Abigail into better habits. There were no more crooked buttons on her dresses, and her hair was always perfectly done up. Alana advised the young girl upon her manners and was only the victim of two or three of the little girl’s pranks in result; thankfully Miss Bloom did not so much as flinch at river frogs, whether encountered during a walk through the local country, or upon turning down her bed covers of an evening.

Abigail was, for once in her life, not the center of attention in this mainly quiet house which seldom saw guests. Unlike her years in Paris with Mama, she was not the “little doll” or miniature prima ballerina on display. Yet at Blackstag she had real affection and a growing sense of stability. Mr. Lecter remained restrained as ever with his ward, but with her attentive tutor, caring maid, and the butler and housekeeper who always had a smile and a cookie for Abigail, she had the sort of good, sturdy love around her that would aid in healing her grief for a mother and a whole life left behind in France, most likely never to be seen again.

It might have seemed just as stable, sturdy, regular and soothing to Will, this life they had founded in the big, gorgeous old estate, but for the dreadful howling which still echoed through the place on certain nights. He could not seem to make any progress in broaching the subject with the master, who held to his same vague and unsatisfying remarks, lightly advising Will not to worry, that some melancholy eccentricity on the part of the individual crying in the attic was surely forgivable and of no harm to anyone.

Will had never met anyone who could so deftly talk _around_ a central topic. It did not matter how many times Will rephrased his inquiries, trying to determine if Miss Chiyoh _was_ the crying woman, for example, or if she might be the caretaker for some miserable soul tucked away in the furthest-north corner of the house. Lecter, who was an open book to Will on every other subject, turned into a labyrinth of shadowy replies, more inscrutable upon close examination instead of less so.

Yet the master was so unfailingly kind to Will, tormentingly handsome and untouchable, still half-concealed behind walls of a complicated construction, comprising pride and fear, seeming to protect a passion which Lecter believed too wild and dangerous to unleash. If only there was some way to let Lecter know that Will wanted the walls to come down, he would take the danger and wildness, short of debasing himself morally, he would be open to anything, simply to be closer, without abstraction between them. Emotional nakedness with Lecter was that which Will craved above all, perhaps because he felt so utterly exposed each time their eyes met, or when their fingers brushed, when the master advised Will on his sketching and leaned over him, his warm breath pouring across Will’s neck, his husky voice falling like fire-trails of pleasure over his skin. Intolerable, pained, precious and glorious _wanting_. 

Sometimes Lecter would spend whole evenings shut up alone in the drawing room. Instead of sending for Will, he would play upon the piano for hours, original compositions that seemed to emerge from his same labyrinth of shadows, the excruciating repression of his mysterious desires. Will listened in the hall, rapt and speechless, and Jimmy had given up in his attempts to urge the teacher to go elsewhere, as the master would surely be banging away at that poor defenseless instrument until dawn. 

On other nights, the master would invite Will to join him and they would while the time away in wine and conversation, or in drawing in companionable silence, later to share the results. Their late-night cooking became a frequent habit, and Will might have thought Lecter was never more charming than when he had flour on his cheeks, and an apron over his fine suit, regaling the teacher with the history of certain recipes. Many times, he decided this was the most delightful version of his employer, but then there were the evenings when Lecter would play for him, Will seated on the couch by the fireplace whilst the master’s hands ran over the keys so quickly that it seemed a panicked movement, yet drew out such marvelous, unpredictable variations of sound and light. The master’s chiseled profile as he leaned over the instrument inspired countless sketches wherein Will remained unsatisfied with his ability to capture that _intensity_ burning in deep amber eyes. 

Perhaps Will thought most of all about the quiet sadness in Hannibal’s smile when he would walk the teacher back to his room, knowing that their wonderful time together must end for the time being. It felt to Will like ripping away some essential part of himself, even to part for a few hours, even to sleep in separate bedchambers. Yet they spent only a few nights a week nourishing their friendship, and Lecter had not touched him amorously since that one kiss to his hand, weeks ago in the kitchen, when the walls had come down completely for one beautiful moment in time. He had no promise to hitch his future dreams to, and must remember not to risk their bond by speaking of hopes that were presumptuous at best, obnoxiously immature and foolish at worst. Yet why, then, did Lecter seem so very sad, if there was no chance he reciprocated Will’s feelings -- what was he thinking of when he released the arm which had slipped through his own for the walk from drawing room to bedchamber, when he smiled as if to fix a bandage over a gushing wound?

***

One Sunday morning, Will walked back from early church services, basking in the orange glow of the same sun which had been notoriously absent of late during chilly days and nights that felt more like a jump into winter than a luxuriation in autumn such as he preferred. Today, at least, it was truly the golden season, draping the crispy foliage in lazy illumination, and the world seemed blissfully slow. Will let himself become encapsulated in this shining morning, full of promise. Anything could happen.

As he passed under the same large tree where Lecter had so memorably knocked his head on the day they met, Will wrapped a fond hand around the bark and caressed the bumps. He wore a tan suit with a cream-colored tie, and every inch of lovely fabric pressed to his skin felt like the touch of the master’s hand. With the lusciousness of the weather, cool but gorgeously sun-dappled, and the vivid meaning which this place held for him, Will was so immersed in his feelings that he was tempted to touch himself.

Since the night he had first considered whether he might be “beautiful,” and concluded that to be called this, and seen this way by Lecter made him glow and ache -- so that it did not especially matter whether he would ever make a definitive conclusion regarding his own assessment of his reflection -- Will had undertaken a more frequent habit of self-pleasuring. He tried to be slight about it...perhaps one night, very late, after returning to his room alone and wishing to remain with the master instead, Will would take the image of Lecter to bed with him, slip into one of his new nightshirts, soft and sensual, and drag gentle hands up and down his own body. A few brief caresses, fingers dipping adventurously under the nightshirt to fan across his bare chest, graze a nipple while the other hand squeezed his thigh, parting his legs. 

He usually went no further, afraid that in feverish lust he would let his obsessive love for the master go too far, so that when the day of their final parting from each other finally arrived, he would not be able to recover, he might run mad. Consummation, even from his own hand, felt like a perilous plunge into dark waters, emotional depths of pleasure he feared would distort his common sense entirely. But on some nights, usually the ones when Lecter did not call for him, Will would be reckless and naughty. Caught up in terrible yearning, he would gather the bedclothes in a bundle and rock his hips, his aching erection against them rhythmically until he burst on a pained gasp of unsustainable, wicked bliss. 

Worst and best of all were the times when he lubricated his hand, using petroleum jelly or olive oil stolen from the kitchen in a move of dark rebellion. Near-drunken on the forbidden power of the master’s words about his beauty, echoing through his mind and kissing him from head to toe, Will would stroke himself slowly and firmly until he was harder than he ever knew was possible, and it seemed the smallest kiss from Lecter, perhaps to one corner of his lips, in that moment would have sent him over the edge. So he imagined the kiss, soft and warm, and exploded, moaning, covering his hand in the sticky excess of his sinful reverie. 

On only one occasion, Will had been bold enough to slide a firm hand down to widely part his thighs, then tease his entrance, biting his lip against moans that would be far too loud to conceal his illicit activities. And he had experimented further, pressing a finger slowly inside himself, learning that if he could be persistent and patient with the initial burn of friction, if he could be generous enough with lubrication and relax into boneless, open acceptance, a blinding euphoria would follow, two fingers delving deeper now, eventually shoved repeatedly, with Will muttering swears he’d never said aloud, until the mere idea of Lecter ever touching him like this or making full love to him as a husband might -- it had him too soon disintegrating into hot white pleasure, whimpering, then whispering Lecter’s name. To him, that name was only "sir," or "Mr. Lecter" -- which might seem amusing to any outsider, but for Will...the titles were very personal, cutting close to the bone. It felt different, reaching completion in this way, rather than by stroking himself -- it was deeper, the bliss so sharply powerful that he found it absolutely frightening. He had not summoned the nerve to explore himself in this way again, especially since as soon as he orgasmed, the guilt of his actions was unbearable. Good Christian boys who were very unlikely to marry ought to be repressing these earthly urges, not feeding them, as if they were some sort of divine inspiration.

But now, basking, carried away on a mood of romance and fragile self-confidence, Will would have liked nothing more than to pleasure himself under this very tree, _their_ tree, out in the open, with the threat of discovery only enhancing the thrill, especially the idea of Lecter finding him in the act.

Will was in the process of weakly dissuading the inappropriate fantasy, when he heard a clopping of horse hooves approaching quickly and blushed seemingly from head to toe. Only one man rode like that, as if hellfire closed in on him with every stolen mile of ground, the man who now brought his noble, sleek steed up to a halt.

Oh, he had been wrong, after all, in attempting to assign one particular mode to the master’s most startling beauty, as if he must be handsomest in the hall when saying goodnight, or pouring his soul into the latest musical composition, laughing in the kitchen or conversing quietly by the fireplace. Now, as the master’s greatcoat billowed around him with the rush of air accompanying speed suddenly stopped, as the sunlight glimmered upon his loosely tied-back hair, bringing out a myriad of blonde, brunette and silver strands, caressing sharp cheekbones and plush lips, Will felt it through his heart like a dagger, that Lecter would be more fascinating and irresistible every time they met, and himself more doomed to heartbreak.

“Good morning, sir,” he said shyly, nearly fainting again at the thought of what he had just been considering a moment before.

***

Hannibal leaned over the saddle and smirked down at the teacher, who smiled up at him, standing under the big old tree which had lost all of its leaves to the season. He contemplated with acute devotion the gorgeous spread of pink warmth over Will’s pale cheeks, and the subtle slick of saliva over the boy’s bottom lip, as if the tutor had been sucking and nibbling that tender flesh. 

“ _Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,_ ” Hannibal drawled throatily, making Will’s shoulders relax as the boy grinned resplendently.

“ _Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun,_ ” Will replied, proud as he always was when reciting from memory. 

They continued trading lines of the Keats poem about autumn, until Will spoke the words, “ _To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells_ \--” and turned quite red in the face, never more enchanting to his employer.

“It suits you,” Hannibal pondered, elegantly dismounting his horse, Midnight, and bowing in more proper greeting to the teacher. With Midnight’s lead looped casually around his hand, he went on, answering the questioning look in Will’s bewitching sapphire eyes, “Being so fond of Keats. He was a dreamer, like you.”

“Oh. You’ve found me out, I’m afraid,” Will chuckled as they began walking side by side, Hannibal leading the horse at a lackadaisical pace, going nowhere in particular. “I try very hard _not_ to be a dreamer. To be --”

“Sensible and useful, I know.” 

Hannibal gave some serious thought to threading the fingers of his free hand through Will’s, but then he had not been able to divest himself of a certain worry concerning the young teacher, that he could easily spook the boy and make him run from their deepening bond, if he violated propriety. An informal intimacy between them would be a sin, in Will’s view, and a threat to his good reputation, the security of his employment. What Hannibal truly desired was to have Will for his husband, but he could not propose without being completely sure of an acceptance. If Will rejected him! He almost shattered in the here and now, even in briefly considering the possibility. If he had overestimated the reciprocation between them, he would rather not ever know it, especially with his fears that Will would hate him if he knew of his murderous and cannibalistic proclivities, the truth about who lived and mourned in the attic, and so many other wretched, hideous secrets which he had scattered over all of Europe in his travels as an unrepentant killer and consumer of human flesh.

“You think I should combine the two sides of myself?” Will asked curiously, breaking through Hannibal’s return to gloomy premonition. “Become somehow...a sensible dreamer?”

“I believe you should open yourself to every possible variation of opportunity and inspiration. And that when you finally emerge from the chrysalis of your development into fruition of becoming, you will be...incomparably stunning. A force of nature.”

“You say that as though it is so easy to open oneself up to potential ruination.” Will’s words flew quickly from lips that soon stopped themselves in apparent regret. “Dear me, I am sorry, sir, that was...I did not mean to speak so boldly, nor argue your very kind and appreciated remarks about my potential.”

“You may say what you like to me,” Hannibal answered breezily, “Without fear, without regret. I will always hear you. You have my counsel, whenever you have need of it.”

“Thank you.” Will looked perplexed, perhaps more with himself than his master. “I really never intended to draw the conversation into such a complex and foreboding subject.”

“Certainly it is too remarkably lovely a day for us to linger on anxieties.” Hannibal wished he might invite Will to join him on his necessary errands which would take up the rest of the morning and afternoon, but where he was going, it was far better he go alone. “What will you do with the remainder of the hours till evening?”

Will’s face fell slightly, as if he had pinned hopes upon them spending more time together. “Well, I’ve just come from church, and then I suppose I might read in the garden for a while, perhaps play with Abigail -- I have taught her Deer Stalker, and she’s confoundedly good at it.”

“I have to call upon several farmers, complete some small errands of business,” Hannibal replied. _Damn._ He was too sorely tempted, he really could not resist putting a smile back on Will’s face if it was within his power --

“Would you like to accompany me?” he had blurted before he could stop the impulse.

Will did smile, but hesitantly; something held him back from fully embracing the invitation. “But sir, it is a sin to work on Sunday.”

Hannibal flashed a playful grin, remounted Midnight, and reached down for Will’s hand. “You won’t perform a jot of labor, Will. Leave the sinning to me.”

***

Will had never felt so free as he did when clinging onto Mr. Lecter while Midnight charged over the moors. The horse’s powerful, fast pace, the thundering of hooves and the wind in his face made Will feel with a wonderful thrill the danger of being thrown from the steed. Will held fast to Lecter’s middle, until the master moved one hand upward to lie over his heart. In this gesture, without being able to see Lecter’s face, Will somehow knew he was smiling.

Lecter’s heart pounded so fast under Will’s palm as the younger man held him more tightly -- now the horse jumped over a small stream and they seemed to be flying -- Will laid his face against the master’s back.

_This is fine. We need never speak of it, and no one is watching. I can have this for a few more moments._

He closed his eyes and the sensation of flight was complete. Lecter was warm and firm beneath his flushed cheek, through the soft fabric of his coat, and his heady cologne made Will’s head spin. One arm remained looped about Lecter’s torso, hand resting over his belly (firm, too, under his waistcoat, Will could feel, with just a hint of softness which he found indescribably endearing), his other hand clasped snugly in the master’s larger fingers, their hearts beating so fast, the horse moving so quickly --

Too soon, it ended, reality and obligation restored. Lecter brought the horse to an easy stop, effortlessly confident horseman that he was, and they let go of each other. 

The farmhouse before them at a short distance was nearly dilapidated, a frightful shambles of a brick cottage whose desolate appearance was in complete odds with the rest of Lecter’s flawless lands.

Will took in the sight with a shiver, then felt more chilled by Lecter’s expression of silent dread.

“You do not like to come here,” Will suggested in concern.

“It’s a matter of unfortunate obligation,” Lecter acknowledged curtly, hiding behind his formalities once more. “And nothing to worry about. We’ll finish business here soon enough, and our next errand will be far more pleasant.”

He smiled tightly, avoiding Will’s eyes, so that the young man reached out a hand to gently touch his sleeve. “What is this place, sir?”

Lecter squared his shoulders and began striding through the yellow field towards the grim-looking house, his jaw set tensely. “It is Francis Dolarhyde’s farm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That seemed like a nice dramatic note to leave off on for now. The events of this day are too much to fit into one chapter anyway. I'll be back soon as Will meets the imposing Mr. Dolarhyde, and later we'll get to the afore-promised Murder Family bonding ❤️


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got another chance to run away to Victorian England! This is a long chapter, hope you enjoy it.
> 
> cw: brief reference to animal abuse

Mr. Dolarhyde’s house was dark inside, and when the farmer admitted his two guests, he did so obscured in hazy, surreal daytime shadow, speaking in a gruff mumble, “Good afternoon, Mr. Lecter. I see you have not come alone today.”

“No indeed,” Lecter replied.

Will almost laughed at the absurd contrast between Lecter’s bright tone and Dolarhyde’s inhospitable, gloomy countenance. Yet he could tell the master forced a cheerful attitude, and Dolarhyde proved an unpleasant host, even in a mere few moments of Will’s experience in the matter.

Dolarhyde lit two short candles and placed them on either side of a worn-down wooden table, and as the mild addition of light shed more understanding on the house, it offered no comfort to assuage Will’s dislike. It was like a corpse of a home, all of the decoration at least twenty years old and out of style, every piece of furniture dusty and unwelcoming. It _smelled_ of dust, combined with a sickly-sweet scent like that of an elderly lady’s perfume.

“This is Will Graham. He is my ward’s teacher,” Lecter said primly, sitting with rigid posture and arranging his hands upon his lap so as to avoid touching anything.

“Mr. Graham. A pleasure,” said Dolarhyde with a sneer. 

He was a handsome man, in a rugged way, tall and well-made, with a scar upon his lip that would have added character, rather than adding to his fearful presence, if he projected any warmth from his personality.

“We must speak about your prospects, Francis,” Lecter went on with fluid insistence. “And the fate of this farm.”

“It’s been...difficult keeping up with the work,” Dolarhyde muttered, “Since my aunt died.”

“I am sorry to hear of your loss,” Will put in, earning a look from Dolarhyde that felt like a gruesome bite. He gulped and decided that he had little need to contribute to this conversation.

“We all grieve dear Matilda, but Francis, you have allowed your crops to die completely,” Lecter chided, remaining firm but not aggressive. “Even the sheep starved, and you left them for days out upon the dead fields.”

“I liked the way they looked.” One corner of Dolarhyde’s mouth spiked up in a haunting smile. 

This sent a chill down Will’s spine. He thoroughly despised those who harmed animals.

“Be that as it may,” Lecter continued, looking subtly annoyed (Will could read his small changes in expression quite aptly by now). “I have to look out for the welfare of my lands. You must reassert yourself or be prepared to sell.”

“Sell,” Dolarhyde almost spat the word, bitter as he glared at Lecter. “Where would I go? What would I do?”

Will’s eyes darted back and forth between tenant and master with a sudden cold shock of realization. In Dolarhyde’s expression, there was immense frustration, as if he had been dealt an unfair blow, but underneath the brunt of that pain, Will noticed an obsession in his gaze upon Lecter. He knew the symptoms all too well. Dolarhyde loved Mr. Lecter; he even adored him. Although the affection was apparently unreturned, and Lecter had been loath to come here, still looked deeply uncomfortable in his own subtle way, Will felt a powerful resentment towards Dolarhyde beginning to roil in his gut, tightening his hands briefly into fists upon his knees.

 _Don’t look at him like that._ His blue eyes glimmered to green as Dolarhyde stood, taking one candle with him, and retreated to a chair by the unlit fire; it was freezing in here, and colder in Will’s glare. Will would have loved to wring the farmer’s neck.

“You will think of something,” Lecter concluded cooly, standing as well, but to take his leave. “I’ve given you formal warning, and now you will have a month to make arrangements as you choose. You’re a clever young man, Francis, and might make something special of yourself, but you must revive to purpose.”

Will could have combusted in irritation at Lecter complimenting this dreadful man, this man who looked at him as if his eyes would consume, as if he would dedicate his life to serving the master, if only Lecter would give into the smoldering lust in his malevolent blue-grey gaze.

When they left Dolarhyde wrapped in mutely sullen indecision in the creaking rocking chair, Will practically chased Lecter across the yard to where Midnight stood calmly waiting.

“What in heaven’s name was that all about?” he asked in a hoarse whisper, breathless with suspense and still shuddering with the after effects of being in that awful house. 

“I half-expected the dead aunt to emerge in skeletal form, stalking at us across the room, at any moment,” he added when Lecter remained silent.

The master’s worried expression melted into a laugh. “It would not have been very surprising, would it?” 

The amusement in his warm brown eyes broke down Will’s rawness of mood and made him giggle as well. 

“Why do you not simply evict him?” Will asked as their laughter died down and they were once again astride Midnight, riding on to the next farm.

“Will Graham,” Lecter smirked as he kept Midnight to a slower pace than usual, enough for easy conversation. Above their heads, birds sang plentifully as through the grass the rabbits darted, everything alive again now they had some distance from the Dolarhyde farm. “If I did not know better, I’d say you were suggesting an unchristian course of action.”

Will blushed, aware that the idea had come out of jealousy and represented an uncharitable view which he would normally consider beneath him. There was some secret, hidden understanding between Lecter and Dolarhyde -- something Will was not a part of, that bonded the two other men. He _hated_ the fact.

“It’s only that he makes you uncomfortable. I do not like to see it, sir.” A half-truth.

“Thank you, Will. I’m touched by your protective attitude, and rather flattered besides. Do not trouble yourself--”

This was his standard phrasing for hiding secrets: “do not worry, do not trouble yourself.” But Will wanted the worries and trouble if it meant they could be honest with each other, that he would no longer be locked out wondering, driving himself insane.

“Do not trouble yourself about Mr. Dolarhyde. He’s a difficult man, but his family have long lived upon Blackstag lands. I will give him one more chance before necessitating him to sell.”

Their next visit was indeed much more pleasant, in such stark opposition that Will could hardly believe both tenants lived upon the same estate.

The Froideveaux farm was a bustling, merry place, all run over with children and animals. A little girl and boy who appeared to be twins, about six years of age, chased a runaway baby pig across the yard, laughing at the creature’s squeals before the girl finally caught the creature up in her arms.

“Only see, Mr. Lecter,” the girl said, somehow managing to curtsey to the guests without dropping the wriggling animal, “She doesn’t know we chased her to give her a bottle of milk. Mama said we may keep this one as a pet, since it is the runt of the litter.”

“A bottle...and perhaps later a bath,” Lecter suggested with a smile, clearly well-acquainted with the family. He was rarely at Blackstag, but when he visited his lands, it was obvious he always made an impression. 

“Oh, yes, sir,” the little boy laughed, “The bottle is a treat to trick her into the bath right afterwards.”

“An ingenious plan,” Will put in.

“This is my ward’s teacher, Mr. Will Graham,” Hannibal explained as the children bowed again in greeting. “Will, this is Elizabeth Froideveaux and her brother Felix.”

“So pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Graham,” Elizabeth said, batting her eyelashes and blushing. 

“Do you like worms?” Felix asked, pointing to a mud puddle, which Will could easily conclude had been the former location of the pig. “We have an excellent bunch of big, wriggly ones there.”

The pig had left mud dripping from the children’s coats, but they were dressed so nicely otherwise that even Abigail would have to approve. Their charming manners and freckled faces helped set Will’s mind at ease, although part of his thoughts were still entangled with the latest mystery regarding the master’s relationship to Dolarhyde.

“ _Well_ ,” Will began brightly, thinking how difficult it must be as a parent to say no to such a face.

Mr. Lecter’s nose had crinkled slightly upon the mention of “wriggly worms”; he was already having to look upon mud, after all. Now his expression shifted to amusement in anticipation of Will’s reply. This made Will feel compelled to kick the master, or very possibly kiss him.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, that’s quite enough of worms, now Felix,” chided a kind-faced young woman with matching freckles who must be the children’s mother. “Good day to you, Mr. Lecter, have you come to speak with my husband about the horse plough?”

Lecter bowed and answered, “Yes, that is precisely the reason for my visit, Mrs. Froideveaux, if you would be so good as to summon Franklyn. First, allow me to introduce you to my ward’s teacher, Mr. Will Graham.”

Although the master did not further gild the introduction with any reference to friendship or add commendations of Will’s character, every time he spoke the simple explanation he seemed to glow with pride. Will was so overcome with fresh pride of his own, the sense of being special which he had never experienced, coupled with affection for his employer, that he had to bite the inside of his cheek to avoid bursting into some sort of gleeful exultation, or worse yet, physical ardor.

“Will, this is Mrs. Georgia Froideveaux,” Lecter elaborated and Will bowed to the lady, still blushing from his contemplations.

“Let me just go and fetch Franklyn,” Mrs. Froideveaux said, pausing on her way around the house to scoop up another smaller child before he could continue pestering an exasperated duck. “Please do go in and make yourselves at home!” she called back to her guests.

“Life is very _busy_ here,” Will noted as he and the master entered the simple but very sweet country cottage and took up chairs at a small table.

The room was a wonder of careful arrangement, as its tiny space should not really allow for the number of items it contained from furniture to decoration. Yet somehow there was a modest piano with a shabby bench behind them, and two chests of drawers with clusters of carefully preserved momentos that must have been heirlooms. The vase was chipped, the dolls looked as if they’d been hassled to within an inch of their artificial lives by the children, but still preserved as decorative items. The rugs were faded, and the desk was wedged directly beside the chest of drawers, the edge of the former digging into the slightly peeling but pretty floral wallpaper, struggling under the exertion of fitting in. The house was happy with the scent of fresh-baked bread, and the jubilant shouts of the children outside.

Mr. Lecter leaned down to pet the two cats who had wandered languorously into the room and began rubbing against the guests’ legs in search of possible treats. “Yes, busy and bright. It seems to be a sort of organized chaos, which while it would not appeal to me in my own lifestyle, serves this family well.”

Will nodded, chuckling as one of the cats, a grey one with proud yellow eyes, hopped into his lap. He patted the animal’s soft head as the master cast him a discerning look and asked, “What is it?”

“It’s only that…” Will bit his lip against the desire to speak words that were, again, presumptuous, but sweet on the tip of his tongue like the master’s fine wine and the scent of his spiced cologne whenever he lingered near. Bittersweet, like what Will could never have.

Mr. Lecter’s eyes darted to Will’s mouth and the sight of his teeth sinking in, and Will’s heart beat faster. “Please, heed my request to speak freely with me, Will,” The master said huskily.

“I think you could do with a little chaos sometimes,” Will suggested, shrugging and feeling the heat in his face with no surprise. “Perhaps a bit of unexpected or unpredictable adventure to ruffle your perfectly assembled feathers.”

Lecter drummed his fingers on the table, looking at Will, or rather _through_ him, with searing interest. “Can you perhaps provide an example?”

The cat departed Will’s lap, offended by his lapse in attention. And under the master’s fierce gaze, Will felt carried away on emotional intoxication coupled with deep, invigorating desire, emboldened. What he really wanted was what he had longed for since the day they met -- to untie the ribbon fastening Lecter’s beautiful hair and let it flow freely about his shoulders, then get his fingers deep into it, stroking and tugging. To feel thereafter a kiss -- he imagined it as being hard and hot, although he had never been kissed before and did not quite know how to accurately conjure an expectation of its reality. Perhaps he thought he would like the master to be so overpowered by his actions as to be firm, demanding, even rough. 

Smothering a sigh into another low laugh, Will set the fantasy aside and settled for reaching across the table to gently ruffle the front of Lecter's hair, mussing its former elegance into a stunning array of glistening silver-brown and blonde strands that framed chiseled cheekbones to gorgeous effect. The hair was soft and thick under his hand, and Lecter released a sharp sigh that might have brought decidedly unexpected consequence, were it not for the entry of Franklyn Froideveaux at that moment.

“Mr. Lecter, it’s always such an honor when you pay us a visit,” Franklyn said warmly, clasping each of their hands in turn with a friendly, enthusiastic grip. 

With his jolly plump figure and delighted attitude, Froideveaux was just the sort of man Will had expected to be the master of this house. And by luck, the bearded farmer was far too interested in chattering away upon every minute detail of local and family news to pay any heed to the way his guests had been staring at each other upon his entry, or how they now avoided each other’s eyes as if to look would be equal to impaling themselves on a burning poker of need, dying in quick exquisite torment, the thrill of need without satiation.

Mrs. Froideveaux brought in tea and bread so fresh it was still deliciously warm. It melted upon the tongue along with the farm-churned butter, and the sturdy meal helped to steady Will’s runaway senses. Lecter, Will and Georgia were done eating by the time Franklyn paused in his ongoing dialogue, suddenly realizing the food had come in some twenty minutes before. 

“Ah! My dear, why did you not tell me the tea was ready?” Franklin inquired, finally embarking upon his own repast, which left a welcome space in oxygen for the others to make some passing remarks.

“With regard to the new horse plough, Franklyn, I have it upon my best man’s assurance that it can be ready in two weeks,” Lecter informed his tenant, finally daring to glance over at Will. It seemed that he leaned upon the excuse of his own speech on another topic to summon the bravery for this simple act, and he found the teacher’s eyes wide with fascination. He realized, he must, that Will had been waiting for him to look, and they both reddened again, smiling shyly.

“Oh, excellent, sir, I thank you so much for your unending kind patronage,” Franklyn remarked, “Mr. Graham, he truly is the best master anyone could wish for, do you not say so?”

“I have heard it said often by others,” Will smiled, amazed at his own audacity in nearly open flirting with the master in front of his tenants. “And therefore I believe it must be true.”

“Right you are indeed,” Georgia put in blithely, although she let out a heavy but resigned sigh as a few of the children were heard boisterously entering the house. “Wipe your shoes on the mat!” she called.

“The best of masters, and we are so excessively lucky that you have decided to visit such a wonderful long time upon this occasion, Mr. Lecter,” Franklyn babbled joyfully.

“So long a time?” Will’s brow knitted as he blinked in mild confusion. It had been a month or so, he supposed, although the time had passed so quickly with himself tragically unable to slow it down and savor every moment as deeply as he wished, but so quickly he could not deem the master’s stay at Blackstag anything resembling _long._

_For me, anything less than forever is far too short a time._

“I normally only stay a few days at home before resuming my travels,” Lecter explained, casual in tone although his eyes were heavy on Will, heavy like the most consuming, soothing sleep during a wild rainstorm, heavy like the sin Will constantly longed to share between them, heavy as its consequence, equally irresistible, inevitable. 

“This time, I made the decision to stay on a bit longer. There were new marvels and fascinations about the place which I was too tempted to explore, too intrigued by, to allow them to fill only a few days.” Lecter sipped his tea and began drumming his fingers again, on his knee this time, nervous, clearly, but also drumming upon Will’s heart, his fingertips patting into the tender flesh and kneading.

“Derbyshire is full of natural beauty, sir,” Franklin piped up, oblivious to the tension in the room, although his wife, even while busy in convincing the children to play quietly on the rug before the fire, cast the guests a silent but knowing look amidst her occupation. “I certainly cannot blame you for noticing once again its enrapturing effects!”

“Indeed, it is beautiful, naturally so. Utterly unspoiled, like the reddest dewy rose.” Lecter tucked one of the loose locks of hair about his face behind his ear. He looked at Will. “I feel as if I am seeing this beauty for the very first time, since I arrived several weeks ago. I feel as if it is changing me.”

Will wondered as to the limitations of what he might endure hearing without losing his sanity and the fragile but stubborn remnants of his adherence to propriety. Surely the master could not really mean those words for him. It was impossible, given their respective stations in life. And although Lecter had called him beautiful, Will still half-suspected this had been only out of kindness. Perhaps Will attempted to persuade himself of this as a safeguard against future heartbreak, and it helped that he had always thought he was _plain,_ so that being called otherwise still seemed almost laughable.

But he did not want to laugh, he wanted to cry from sheer confusion and being torn in too many directions of wanting, doubting and hoping.

Again, he settled for what would do, what would be best in this moment, and nodded with a gentle smile, his eyes only a bit watery. “Certainly, sir, you have a lovely estate, and your patronage is a great gift to all of your tenants.”

“It is only what is owed them,” Lecter said firmly. He looked stern and correcting now, detecting Will’s doubts and insisting he had meant what he said, the carefully coded words of admiration. He might as well have said, _Will, you truly are beautiful; you truly have enraptured me,_ if Will was going to be silly enough to believe such frivolous and impossible flights of fancy on either of their parts. “I speak the truth.”

“Not always,” Will shot back, “Not wholly.”

“What man does?” Lecter asked, flushed and apparently annoyed, but in a way that only increased Will’s desire and therefore his own consternation.

“A good man,” Will replied.

The silence stretched awkwardly then, the conversation having been dragged so far into accidental intimacy that even Franklyn intuited he should hold his tongue and allow the talk to resume its former pleasant and harmless tact.

The silence, however, was not actual; the children were playing animatedly by the fire, stringing yarn for the cats to play with and giggling while the pets rolled about and tangled the string in their paws. This sound seemed to suddenly resume in Will’s understanding when Lecter withdrew that heavy, now almost accusing look, and he could process rational thought once again, including acknowledgement of his environment.

“The tea was excellent, Mrs. Froideveaux,” Will croaked, clearing his throat and trying to act somewhat like his normal self, although that _normal_ young man seemed so far away by now as to have possibly originated in myth or wishful thinking. 

His nightmares were not normal, and his upstart infatuation with his wealthy employer was absolutely dangerous. Who was he, and what was he to become?

“Thank you, Mr. Graham, I am happy you--” Coming back to clear the tea things away, Georgia groaned as a cacophonous barking erupted in the front entranceway of the house behind one thin wall. 

“Felix, I told you we cannot keep that rascal of a dog, and to send him on his merry wandering way after you fed him,” she pronounced with hands on her hips as her son entered the room trailed by a dog with the biggest, most irresistibly adorable dark eyes ( _well, almost the most irresistible_ ) and fine golden fur dotted by auburn and brown. 

The dog, while displaying poor manners by barking and prancing about excitedly in the house, was so endearing that Will forgot to be angry with Mr. Lecter or himself and laughed in glee.

“Hello, boy,” Will called out, gently whistling, then kneeling to stroke the dog’s fur as the animal immediately paused in happiness at the attention, which was obviously far preferable to the children’s careless tugs and pulls or the mistress of the house complaining of his presence. “What is his name?”

“This is Winston,” said Felix as if introducing a passing acquaintance with whom he had half-lost interest. 

“He wanders the moors of late and happened upon our land last night, moaning for food,” Georgia explained. “And of course I’m not about to let the poor creature starve, but we don’t have room for another pet with all these children and another one on the way.” She patted her belly, which Will now realized appeared slightly rounded under her apron. “And with all the blasted ducks, cows, pigs and horses, really, Franklyn, how could you let them bring this dog inside? You are to clean the floors afterwards as far as I am concerned.”

“But my dear, I did not allow the children to admit the foul creature,” Franklyn defended himself with the clear knowledge there was little point in doing so. “However, I apologize,” he gulped when his wife gave him a certain look.

“Oh, he’s a good boy, aren’t you, Winston?” Will laughed when Winston answered with a short bark. He stroked the dog’s back, then scratched behind his ears. “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy, Winston is, yes you are…”

Lecter had apparently collected himself over the past few minutes and was looking upon his ward’s teacher with new realization of Will’s apparent fondness for dogs.

“If you have no use for Winston here, perhaps we -- I might take him,” Lecter proposed, startling Will with the suggestion.

“We -- you might?” Will asked, and Winston barked again as if to encourage the idea.

“We shall, if it is all the same to you, Mrs. Froideveaux.” The master stood and straightened his jacket, swiping a few more rebellious strands of hair back from his face, and quickly rearranging his ribbon to make the ponytail neat once more. 

Will could see that Lecter tried to make _himself_ neat once more, without and within, sensing he had pushed Will too far without giving enough to justify the emotional imposition. But still, even behind his prideful mask again, he sought to please Will, even to make amends.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, focusing on Winston as he continued petting the dog, trying to rearrange his feelings with anything like the alacrity which Lecter applied to the task. 

The sight of Lecter’s vulnerability never failed to melt his heart and bring out his protective instincts. It might seem strange that he, a poor, plain, much younger man and a mere teacher should feel driven to in any way protect a man like Lecter, but there was something very broken in the master that needed love and soothing, and Will could sense it more with every interaction between them.

***

Winston trotted happily along home behind Midnight and responded to his new life of splendor at Blackstag with vigor.

“I’ll train him to behave, do not worry, sir,” Will promised, looking adorably apologetic when the dog ran in excited circles around the front hall. 

“At least he is trained as to the most important aspect where he might do damage,” Hannibal said calmly, “And can be relied upon to carry out his natural business out of doors. Furthermore, he does not chew the furniture or shoes, according to the Froideveaux family.”

“I’d like to give him a bath,” Will suggested with a smile that made Lecter positively ecstatic to have brought a drooling, barking distraction into his home, voluntarily.

When Abigail returned from her walk about the gardens with Miss Bloom, she was thrilled to learn of the new addition to the family. The little girl giggled and came running when she encountered her adoptive father and teacher up to their elbows in soap and bath water, trying to scrub the moors from Winston’s fur. 

“I refuse to give up, despite this creature’s incessant fidgeting, until his scent is restored to something fit for human perception,” Hannibal grumbled.

He normally would not have wished Will to see him in quite such a state, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, shirt disheveled, his attire splotched with _dog bath water,_ and yet...Will’s exuberant love for the animal was contagious. That he had made Will laugh, smile and feel joy such as this was a balm to Hannibal’s wounded soul and bafflement over how to win the younger man’s heart without further offending him, _and_ without risking his own heart -- until he absolutely knew he would be accepted.

They dried Winston off, which was a sort of wrestling match involving a mad, tumbling attempt to place the towel on the dog before he moved again, barking in insistence that this unfortunate task be done with.

Abigail shrieked with laughter and chased the dog outside, where he ran dripping into the gardens. And left on their bottoms upon the kitchen floor by the wash-basin, Will and Hannibal laughed until their faces were sore, then Hannibal reached down to help the teacher up. “Let us go and see what they are up to,” he suggested with a grin, hardly recognizing himself in this eagerness for childish play and mischief.

Will seemed charmed by the relaxation of his strict manners and severe defenses, and this made it treacherously easy for Hannibal to let his walls come down. 

Outside, Abigail frolicked with Winston in the twilight, chasing the dog round the hedge maze, then tossing a ball for him while Hannibal and Will stood nearby watching and encouraging, the quietness between them utterly companionable.

“It is nice to allow Miss Bloom a bit of relaxation of an evening, and accompany Abigail on such exertions,” Will suggested.

“A hint of chaos,” Hannibal affirmed with an arch smile, “Perhaps it can do me good, after all, Mr. Graham. Whatever would I do with myself absent of your advice?”

“Do you mean to be sarcastic?” Will asked, smirking as he sat down on a bench before the lawn where Abigail played with the dog, cooing to Winston now in French.

“Certainly not, but I think you know that. I believe you are getting to like my compliments, and even know how to make me repeat them.”

“Really, sir.” Will rolled his eyes and tugged his shirt collar. How startlingly handsome he looked in that suit, even now that it was a bit damp around the edges and bedraggled. Perhaps Hannibal liked Will best that way, after all. 

He allowed his hand upon the bench to edge gradually nearer Will’s own, until they were almost touching. Their eyes met, and Hannibal opened his mouth, to say what he did not know (only with Will did words ever fail him). But Abigail had fallen asleep on the lawn, before even having her dinner, and with a low chuckle, Will stood to help the child.

Hannibal trailed Will as the teacher coaxed Abigail into taking a light meal before bed, so she would not be too hungry in the morning. Then Will brought the girl to her room and turned down her bed covers, Hannibal hovering in the doorway, viewing all of this as an outsider to the domestic, familial sphere, as one who felt he did not possess the right qualities to participate in such innocent affection or properly rear a child.

Abigail nestled down in the bed and Will asked softly, would she like him to send in Miss Bloom to tuck her in?

“No, I wish for you and Mr. Lecter to tuck me in,” Abigail murmured drowsily, curled up on her side with one arm draped over her teddy bear. “And Teddy wants to hear a story first.”

“Mr. Lecter, do you know any good bedtime stories?” Will whispered playfully, beckoning to Hannibal with a curl of his fingers.

“I...suppose...my sister always liked to hear the tale of the three bears,” Hannibal suggested, feeling awkward and out of place. He went because Will called, and sat gingerly beside him on the edge of Abigail’s bed. “And so...well. Once upon a time…”

Abigail was asleep only a few minutes into Hannibal’s rendition of the story as he remembered telling it to Mischa, and the memories that came with the words struck him to the quick. He could almost believe this surrogate daughter was a manifestation of a second chance to properly look after his sister, and felt suddenly called to commit himself more faithfully to parenting, as he had felt called to this place in their lives when Will whispered his name.

They left the room quietly and continued to the dining room for their own dinner; Hannibal in the distraction of the day had left all cookery to the servants. He could not really identify the flavors of Price and Zeller’s cuisine as to good, poor or indifferent, as the only sensation that seemed at all palpable was the unnerving tenderness of his disposition. In fact, he barely spoke throughout the meal, but exchanged soft smiles with Will across the table by candlelight. Afterwards, they parted ways to bathe and redress before appearing together in the drawing room, as Hannibal could not help extending the invitation that was an indulgence of his perilous risk, the risk of being open-hearted enough to be truly hurt by someone he cared for.

After another sparkling evening of conversation, art, wine and simmering, sweet tension, Hannibal walked Will to his room and bade him a chaste goodnight, waving off the teacher’s insistently repeated words of thanks for bringing Winston home. 

“It was nothing, no trouble at all to me, if it makes you happy in the least.”

“It makes me _very_ happy sir. If you knew how I’d always wanted a dog of my own, well...thank you, more than I can truly express.”

Hannibal could not bear this amount of beauty before his eyes under the burden of such emotion, unless he cut the moment with humor. “I’m sure Winston is also immensely grateful for the change in his accommodations, if his response to the new bed is any indication.”

Having no other amenity to facilitate the matter, Hannibal had simply given the dog a large, fine cushion from one of the guest room beds, and the dog had fallen asleep even faster than Abigail as soon as he curled up upon it.

“I think you’re right, sir,” Will laughed, blushing as they said goodnight and he licked his pretty lips in a way surely designed to drive a formerly cold-hearted man thoroughly mad.

***

Will passed a restless night, almost feverishly so. He heard no howling from the attic, from the hidden, melancholy secrets of the dear old house that threatened his comprehension of the place and its master. Rather, the howling came from within himself, in the constant fear that every day he spent here in unheard of happiness would be the last. How could this life be meant for him?

He rose from bed and slipped into a warm, soft blue robe which had been among Lecter's gifts of clothing, along with matching slippers. It was his intention to go down to the drawing room, as he sometimes did when he could not sleep, and wrap himself in the dreamy luxury of remembering the times with the master -- so nostalgically, even before such times were lost. 

Only a few hours ago they had laughed here, Lecter had sat at the piano while Will took up the desk to sketch, and now the room would be empty…empty and full of memories which…

But the room wasn’t empty. A solitary lady sat by the dwindling fire, a book clasped delicately in her hands. Will cleared his throat quietly and said with a bow, “I beg your pardon, madam.”

The woman, with shining dark eyes and lovely raven tresses piled upon her head, nodded. She was surprised to see another person at this hour, but not alarmed. “Good evening,” she greeted with warm but restrained cordiality.

“Hello. I’m Will Graham, I’m Abigail’s teacher,” he explained. “You must be Miss Chiyoh.”

“Yes,” Chiyoh nodded, indicating to Will he should come in and sit upon the opposite chair. Her voice seemed to vibrate as one with the night, silky smooth, and it was easy for him to believe she was Hannibal’s surrogate sister, the only family he had left from childhood, aside from the kind but cold-sounding aunt and uncle. “I hope you are enjoying your life here at Blackstag, Mr. Graham.”

“Oh, please, you may call me Will,” he insisted with a laugh. “And I am ever so fond of Blackstag. It has been a sort of new beginning for me, as I came here from Wolftrap school.”

“Wolftrap,” Chiyoh frowned. “I have heard the most ghastly stories about that place.”

“Do you like ghastly stories?” Will asked, pointing to the book of Radcliffe in her hand. “ _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ is one of my favorites as well.”

“There is something satisfying about a frightening story, that conversely makes one feel safe.” Chiyoh wore a nightgown and robe, elegant to the last detail, and with her perfect posture and graceful demeanor, she might as well be wearing a ballgown.

“Yes. Because the tales of woe upon the page speak to us of past frights and future presentiments, but in the here and now it reminds us we are safe. And then -- the suspense never fails to send pages flying when it comes to Ann Radcliffe’s works -- or those of Mr. Dickens, of course.”

“Of course. Did you come here to read at such an hour?”

“Well, you did, apparently,” he smiled, succeeding in bringing a small smile in return to her serious expression. “As for me, I suppose I am fond of this room in particular, of the whole house. It comforts me. It does not matter if I read or merely sit and stare at the fire, turning over the questions of my life within my mind.”

“Do you ever reach a conclusion in your questioning?” She asked, intrigued.

“No,” he chuckled, “But never for lack of obsessively applying myself to the task. And you? No one would be awake at this time if they were not in some way restless. Do you ever reach a solution to the grand quandaries of life?”

“Not as yet.” Chiyoh returned her eyes to the book, murmuring, “It is very pleasant to make your acquaintance, Mr. Graham.” 

Will wandered to the bookcase and drew out _Nicholas Nickleby,_ then followed suit to Chiyoh’s chosen way to traverse these dark and deep hours stolen from sleep. 

“It is an honor to make yours as well, Miss Chiyoh.”

He observed her pensive, focused profile for a few more moments before he looked at his book, still considering her apparent personality upon first and very brief impression. But then, he was a quick, adept judge of character. In Lecter’s case, for example, he wished he could be less so, take away less full comprehension of the many shades in his master’s fascinating nature, be less changed himself by what he found in those unforgettable amber eyes.

As to Miss Chiyoh, she was even more repressed and held back within herself than the master, with the same eloquence, wit, and ability to cloak secrets with charm. Will could not imagine her as the person who had filled the house with plaintive wails. But nor, upon such a fragile early acquaintanceship, could he be so bold as to inquire of her, whether she knew the identity of the poor soul in question. If the wailing individual was not Chiyoh, it was certain the young woman _did_ know exactly who it was that suffered in the furthest high corner of the estate. Was Chiyoh -- and for that matter, Jimmy and Brian -- were they protecting the mysterious person by remaining so furtive? How could this be, if it were the case -- what secret could require such absolute refusal to all attempts Will made to bring it into the light? Why did it seem that in protecting the person's identity and the facts around their presence here, these other residents also protected the master?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is extremely eventful and I'm so excited to get into it! By way of hints, I'll just mention blood, fire and consummation...🖤


	8. Chapter 8

Mr. Lecter was called away to London upon some matter of business, and Will must subsist upon nothing more than the remaining delights of Blackstag until his return. Indeed, Will reasoned this was an excellent opportunity to accustom himself to the master’s much-heard-of vagrant ways. The day would come when Blackstag ceased once again to hold interest and the restless Mr. Lecter would embark once more on his indulgent travels. Will must not depend upon his presence or the longevity of their bond. He had trained himself from childhood never to depend on anyone but himself, and must hold fast to this essential creed.

He felt sturdy in his own establishment at Blackstag, at least, and kept quite busy during the master’s week-long absence between his teaching duties and the wonderful addition of Winston into his life. When Will was out wandering the moors with Winston frollicking by his side, he had full love and acceptance without judgement. It was the reason why he had always loved animals; they did not care if he was morally corrupt inside, if he secretly cherished and feared his nightmares of violent decadence, if he desired the last person in the world he should. Winston’s loyalty was as innocent as it was dependable, and the dog’s amusing antics thankfully distracted Will from becoming overly anxious.

One afternoon as Will walked to the stables bearing some carrots for the horses, he became gradually aware that he was followed. His keen natural instincts picked up on a soft padding of feet in the grass behind him as he traversed across the lawn. Pausing, he looked around, but could see no figure to match the sound and the feeling of paranoia sizzling through him, raising his hackles of adrenaline. Perhaps he fancied it was the mournful figure from the attic, who by now seemed more a ghost than anything corporeal, and suspected himself of being haunted on this dreary, cold day. Perhaps he had imagined the presence, but in any case Will determined that the wisest course of action was to go straight to the stables as planned. If mischief was afoot, it would hopefully be discouraged if Zeller was also present and tending to the horses. He suddenly did not like to be alone in the thick mist and chill air.

But Brian did not happen to be in the stables at present -- there were just the two Will had come to visit, Blackstag’s carriage horses, Smoke and Shadow. Will’s boots crunched in the hay as he entered the building and made his way to the horses’ stalls, every now and again turning back suddenly in an effort to surprise anyone who might be following him. But still, no one appeared.

“Hello, girls,” Will smiled to the horses, greeting them each with a fond petting. He laughed, but the sound was hollow. “I think I’m losing my mind. Do you ever have that feeling?”

Shadow let out a whinney, more in request of a carrot than in answer to his question, and Will laughed, holding out a bright, fresh vegetable for her. “Oh, Shadow, you’re right, I am really quite ridiculous, and getting more so by the day.”

 _Smoke and Shadow, truly, what names._ The master did thrive so on doom and gloom, even giving his horses the most ominous titles. He felt a gush of fondness for Lecter in the contemplation which finished the job of making him forget his former suspicion that he was being stalked on the way here.

Therefore, when a voice suddenly spoke up from a short distance away, echoing across the stables, Will registered it with a full-body shock.

“Will Graham.” Francis Dolarhyde, in all his leering, menacing glory, stood there smiling grimly, staring directly at him. He wore a plain black suit and a pair of slick-looking gloves to match. “You interest me.”

“Mr. Dolarhyde,” Will bowed, quickly passing Smoke the rest of her carrot, “To what do I owe this honor? If you have come seeking Mr. Lecter, I’m sorry to inform you he is not at Blackstag today.”

“I know where he is,” Dolarhyde hissed under his breath, stepping closer as Will automatically stepped back. “I always know where he is. I knew this was my chance to speak with you privately and availed myself accordingly.”

Anger at Dolarhyde’s presumptuous statements fused with jealousy at his claimed intimacy with the master, solidifying into a shield that protected Will from fear at the man’s threatening demeanor. He dropped his own more formal manners and scowled.

“What business is it that you think you have with me?”

“You’re an odd sort of man for a teacher,” Dolarhyde pondered, running his hand over the door of a stall, “Not very handsome. Not especially intelligent. I cannot understand what he sees in you.”

“This has gone on long enough,” Will insisted, his eyes ablaze with indignance. “How dare you come here and insult me, make these inappropriate comments about my employer? I beg you would leave at once, before I compel you to do so personally.”

“So you have gumption in you, at least.” Dolarhyde huffed a malevolent laugh. “I suppose that’s better than nothing. It means you will put up a fight, but that does not concern me. I rather welcome the challenge.”

“Do you propose a dual, sir?” Will shook his head. “You cannot seriously perceive either of us as a romantic object for Mr. Lecter, much less consider me your rival in the matter.”

“You cannot be a complete dolt, or you would never have put him so entirely under your thrall,” Dolarhyde considered. “Perhaps you have merely manipulated him with youthful charms into believing he loves you, but he _does_ believe he loves you, that’s plain enough. I could see it within minutes of watching the two of you together. Is it his fortune you seek, or merely the admiration that would follow such a coup, such a leap of social rank from the dustheap to the loftiest clouds above?”

“You are a delusional, raving miscreant,” Will retorted sharply, incensed. His face burned with anger and a firm desire to thrash the life from this awful, hideous man. 

By his sides, Will’s hands formed tight fists, nails digging into his palms. Dolarhyde’s obsession with Lecter was dangerous. If left unattended, the farmer would do far worse than hurt Will -- one day he might go after the master, and Will could _not_ allow that to remain a possibility.

“ _You_ are a conniving, shallow, poor and shabby interloper setting your cap at a man far above your station merely for your own selfish gain,” Dolarhyde growled. 

He strode forward again so that they were face to face, chests puffed and breaths heaving. A vein pulsed in Dolarhyde’s forehead and Will realized there would be no dual; the man had come here to murder him; he wore the gloves not merely to protect from the cold, but to keep blood from his hands. Most likely, Dolarhyde had a blade on his person, and Will began deftly calculating with which hand and from which pocket he was likely to draw, guessing at the probable angle of his attack. All of this came to Will with a razor-sharp focus that astonished him -- he seemed to have the instinct of a hunter, a sixth sense called forth out of peril. His terror seemed, at least temporarily, shoved down by the overpowering impulse of molton rage.

“I give you one more chance to depart without the need for violence,” Will bit out, ice running through his veins, invigorating him until he almost _hoped_ Dolarhyde threatened him, as if he wanted the excuse to fight back. 

“He will never, never be yours,” Dolarhyde murmured, and sure enough one hand dipped into his coat. Will took a few steps back, which took him outside the stable, out of danger as he hoped of the horses being spooked and hurting themselves or him in a melee. 

“What claim do you think you have on him?” Will demanded, fleetingly comforted to think how fiercely wrathful Lecter would be if he heard about this incident. 

“He’s _mine,_ ” Dolarhyde pronounced, then lept, quick as a demon-cat, in Will’s direction bearing the shining knife, aiming for the teacher’s heart.

Will jumped back, then when Dolarhyde lunged again with the knife, he felt ready and immediately grabbed the farmer’s wrist in a vice grip, surprising his opponent with the risky move and strength of his hold. So, Dolarhyde had assumed that because Will was younger and smaller, he must also be meek, worthless in a fight, and easy to defeat? That had been a grave error, even if Will was only just now realizing this for himself.

Dolarhyde thrust his arm forward, trying to either stab or compel Will to release him; Will gave an almighty heave on the arm and thrust the farmer closer, then kneed him as hard as he possibly could in the stomach, adrenaline combining with his focused intensity to make him monstrously strong. The knife fell to the ground and they grappled hand-to-hand, Dolarhyde hunched and letting out guttural groans of pain, then quickly recovering to punch at Will’s head. He landed a vicious blow to Will’s cheek but the throbbing, blood-seeping, bruising pain only thrilled the teacher and made him want more: more danger, more vital, terrible, awesome violence, and he _hated_ this man who loved Lecter. This man who might one day hurt the master, if Will did not stop him now. They exchanged more rough, brutal punches until both had bleeding cheeks, squinting, purpled eyes and red dripping lips. The feral intent in their eyes was unmistakable: neither man would give way. The grounds were empty except for the two of them, and eerily silent. This would end with a death.

Will threw himself on his opponent, knocking Dolarhyde to the ground as the other man howled in anger and got hands around Will’s throat, squeezing hard. Rapidly Will had read Dolarhyde’s essential weak point, that he relied entirely on his own natural strength and did not know how to alter his strategy under fast, harsh attack from a light, spry and relentless opponent. The teacher retaliated with a knee to Dolarhyde’s groin, resulting in the release of the death-hold, and then Will’s hand shot out for the knife in the frost-tipped grass. Still recovering from the last bout of pain, Dolarhyde’s eyes went huge when the blade entered him, Will smashing the knife into his chest with all his might, as he would slay a dragon. He felt the savage excitement of pushing the weapon through living flesh, blood and muscle, plunging it between Dolarhyde’s ribs to his heart. 

It was lusciously righteous, and he smiled, a haunting smile as the breath was punched from Dolarhyde’s lungs with the deadly wound. His vision began blacking out and if Will had to guess at his final thoughts, they appeared to be confoundment over how he had been bested by someone he had thought a pathetic pipsqueak brat. 

“He was never yours,” Will murmured close over Dolarhyde’s face, watching with joy as the life drained from his eyes, “He’s _mine._ ”

***

“Please, we mustn’t tell Abigail about this incident,” Will told Jimmy and Brian after returning to the house and taking to the kitchen to clean and patch up his injuries.

The servants stared at him in extended horror and bewilderment. “She’ll see the state of you, Will,” Brian pointed out.

“Then I’ll tell her I was injured in town, that there was a carriage accident,” Will invented, dabbing his blood-oozing lower lip with a towel. His head ached mightily; every place where he’d been hit was going to ache and throb for days. He was still running on incomparable excitement, but he would have to wait until later, when he was alone, to consider the ramifications of his actions.

“I don’t want Abigail to be afraid. Dolarhyde is dead and cannot hurt anyone else; there’s no need to alarm her,” Will insisted.

“Very well, but _Will,_ I cannot fathom how it is that you bested that dreadful beast of a man. He was enormous, and well-rumored to be brutal in a fight.” Jimmy shook his head. “Dolarhyde used to go into town simply to start fights in the tavern, and he’s spent quite a few nights in jail after sending his drunken opponents to the infirmary.”

“It was nothing less than a miracle of timing,” Will reasoned, pressing a bundle of wrapped ice to his forehead. “He attacked; I knew he would kill me, and so I did what I had to.”

“Surely self-defense, Will, no one doubts that,” Jimmy agreed. “I’m just immensely relieved you survived this wretch. Whyever did he choose to target you?”

“Come now,” Brian said, a bit of smug humor now nestling into his otherwise concerned mood. “You must have noticed that Dolarhyde had a fixation on the master.”

“Well, who doesn’t?” Jimmy sighed, “I suppose you are right if your line of thinking is that the master’s...fondness for young Will here may have set Dolarhyde off.”

“Yes, while Mr. Lecter’s regard for me is obviously entirely platonic and appropriate to our positions in the household, Mr. Dolarhyde believed we were lovers.” Will finished cleaning up and gathered the linens to bring to the laundry room. “As you will easily conclude from this account, he was entirely mad.”

***

By the time Mr. Lecter returned on the morrow, the entire matter had been swept under the household rug, merely one more secret living quietly in its hallowed halls. The local authorities had taken Will’s testimony and confirmed the tale of self-defense even as Will began upbraiding himself in retrospect, appalled at the deadly instincts and euphoric thrill he had experienced. 

_Was_ it self-defense, entirely? The way it had _felt_ , icy hot, ferocious, glorious and freeing, it did not feel like “defense.” When he had Dolarhyde flat on his back, incapacitated, when he had the knife in his own hand, Will had certainly possessed every opportunity to run away to the house and get help. But he had chosen to kill this man -- and even now he did not regret it, could not. It had been one of the best moments of his life, as if every nightmare had led him to that moment of heady bloodlust, but his conscience was there to remind Will how terribly wrong this was. Inside, he was _something terribly wrong_. And he must learn, somehow to live with that -- more importantly, he must make sure he never manifested such gruesome behavior again.

He was under no threat of investigation by the police and they had taken Dolarhyde’s body away; it was now as if the event never occurred outside Will’s conflicted, blood-streaked canvas of the memory. Jimmy and Brian would certainly never speak of it again, and no one else in the house was privy. However, as soon as Lecter returned home, it was evident he had heard about the death of his tenant upon his own lands.

Mr. Lecter arrived breathless in the door of the library where Abigail was grumbling about her sums, Will calmly reminding her of their necessity to her education. It could have been any day, were it not for the bruises all over Will’s face, the faint lines of strain about his neck where he had nearly been strangled, and Mr. Lecter’s utterly breathless, panic-struck demeanor.

“I stopped in the village on my way here, and encountered Franklyn -- who told me of what occurred,” the master got out, looking pale and more upset than Will had ever seen him.

“Oh, Mr. Graham is quite alright,” Abigail chirped up innocently. “His carriage went over yesterday, but nobody suffered grave injury.”

Will gave Lecter a pointed look and a pained smile, whereupon the master nodded. “Yes, of course, the carriage accident. I was quite worried, Abigail.” 

Lecter had read the message in Will’s eyes plainly enough: that they must conceal the truth of Dolarhyde’s attack from Abigail.

“Worried for your excellent teacher, and for you of course, not being sure exactly who was in the carriage.”

“Did you ride like the wind all the way home to make sure we were safe?” Abigail asked, setting her pencil down, interrupting the lackadaisical row of daisies she was drawing on the line where the answer to the equation belonged. She looked fascinated and charmed with this possibility of parental affection and protectiveness.

Lecter sat beside her with a fond smile. “Yes, of course. And now that I am home, and see you both well, my mind is set at ease. I am still plagued with another problem, however, which is a small but annoying weight in my pocket there. I truly cannot guess at the source, but perhaps if you investigate?”

Abigail grinned and dug her hand into the pocket of Lecter’s coat, where she discovered a porcelain doll with tumbling blonde curls and a lavish dress of seafoam green. “Oh, how beautiful,” she sighed, pressing the doll against her chest and laying her forehead over the lush green hat. “I shall call her Alana!”

“Miss Bloom will be very honored,” Will smiled, his anxiety slightly lessened as his heart warmed in the familial moment. 

“And now I leave you to your lessons. Heed what Mr. Graham tells you, Abigail, and complete all of your work accordingly, for there will be chocolate cake after dinner, and none for those who neglect their sums.”

“Chocolate cake!” Abigail proclaimed with new energy. She squinted down at the problem and began writing numbers instead of flowers, prompting Will to give the master a grateful look.

***

Hannibal barely survived the remaining hours that dragged obnoxiously between his arrival in the afternoon, and their evening appointment in the drawing room. As soon as Will entered the room and closed the door behind him, Hannibal stepped forward, once again losing his iron-clad composure. He had kept it up very well throughout the day and at dinner with Abigail and Miss Bloom, but now they were alone and he _must_ know how Will truly fared.

“Will,” he sighed, clasping the younger man’s hand and looking in consternation at the wounds about his face. “I wish Dolarhyde would rise from the grave so that I could murder him again myself for laying a hand on you. I blame myself entirely for this wretched attack and beg your forgiveness.”

“Oh, sir, that is not necessary, please do not trouble yourself,” Will shook his head, angelically resigned to carry the burden of the attack alone. “Mr. Dolarhyde was mentally unsound. He was going to hurt someone eventually at any rate, and I am glad it was me, as I was able to fight him off.”

“No, no,” Hannibal insisted, cupping Will’s cheek, looking over the mottled flesh and examining the bloodshot look of his eyes. “Will, it should have been me. I never should have left you.”

Will stared at him in confusion. “I would never want you to be attacked in my place, sir, and it is a profound relief to me that you were not at Blackstag at the time. Of course, you must leave me sometimes, since neither our positions as employer and dependent, nor as friends, necessitates you to look after me. I am well used to taking care of myself.”

Hannibal drew back, chastened by Will’s cold-seeming response, although the boy’s flesh had burned under his tender touch. “I see.” 

He walked to the window, fidgeted with the curtain. “And that is the way you prefer it? You thrive on self-sufficiency and wish to be entirely independent.”

“I...yes,” Will replied, “I have long felt that since my place in the world is designed for one of humble service, I must learn to embrace autonomy, not to rely on others for help or--”

“Or love,” Hannibal concluded briskly. He yanked the curtain shut and sat down at the desk with a flourish of his elegant dark green jacket. 

“Or love,” Will agreed, his voice soft, wounded as his face although he would not indicate why this turn in the conversation upset him. 

He agreed with Hannibal’s theory -- he confirmed that he wished no closer intimacy between them, that he preferred to live single, yet he seemed deeply sad. It was maddening, stomach-turning, to resist holding his beloved after such an ordeal, and worse to be mired in bafflement over whether Will returned his feelings. 

Some of his time away had been spent in London upon business regarding his accounts throughout Europe, some spent in Lothersdale, North Yorkshire completing a vital matter of retribution. And he had not passed one moment which had not been harrowed with doubt and gnawing pain at their separation. If he pushed too far, too fast, and Will slipped through his fingers, Hannibal could not stand to think of what he himself would become -- degradation through vulnerability was that he had always feared most in life. Now that he feared the loss of Will even more, he could not reconcile his internal make-up. It was a complete jumble of inconsolable temptations and paranoias. Could Will not see what he was _doing_ to him?

He began work on a new sketch, a fast rendering of the wildest part of the moor where the tree branches stretched to the sky like skinny, gnarled fingers in this barren season, and his pencil nearly dug into the paper with every harsh line.

Soon a glass of his favorite claret appeared at his side, and he looked up to see the teacher smiling bashfully at him. “I should like to hear something of your travels, sir, if you do not mind. And then later, perhaps I might show you my most recent sketches?”

Hannibal gazed at him, pleading silently to have the agonizing quandary of this obsession taken away, praying for mercy from an angel. Ah -- how he used to believe he would never degrade himself by _praying,_ prior to being enveloped in this new religion. He blinked down at his picture again to find it a dark and fearsome rendition. The pencil was still clutched tight in his hand, and Will reached out to touch his wrist gently. 

“This is beautiful,” Will murmured, nodding at the sketch. 

How like him, to see the bleakest, most frightened side of Hannibal and think it beautiful. Such perfect, remarkable empathy. Will was not of this realm, surely, he belonged to heaven; he would forever be out of Hannibal’s reach. A devil should never share breath with an angel, or they would both be dragged to hell.

“Please, sir, do not blame yourself for the attack on my person. And do not be overly concerned regarding my injuries. I assure you I am quite well.”

Hannibal forced a small smile. “My trip to London was excruciatingly dull and has not left me with any intriguing tales.” His brow furrowed as he added contemplatively, “However, it _has_ left me with yet another unaccountable, irritating weight in my jacket. As such, I transferred the mysterious objects to my desk here, in the hopes you might help me to identify them.”

“Mr. Lecter,” Will giggled, “You have not brought me a present as well!”

“What a suggestion.” Hannibal smirked, opening the top drawer of his desk to reveal a leather bound sketchbook, a new set of charcoal pencils, and a copy of Mr. Dickens’ latest novel which had only just come out in volumes and had not yet appeared in the village shops. 

Will marveled at the gifts and touched them carefully one by one, as if afraid to take them, and he had to be encouraged to try the new pencils, begged to read aloud from _Little Dorrit_ as they sat together by the fire. Hannibal felt again staggered at the beautiful teacher’s humility and wished that Will knew he wanted to give him not only occasional presents and fleeting caresses, but all of himself, everything in this world that he had or could offer.

***

It had been a relief to Will that he had evaded more close explanation of his fight with Dolarhyde, as not talking about it with the master made it easier to try and repress his own sinful role in the matter. If Will did not discuss the incident with Mr. Lecter, _had_ it really occurred? After all, with the exception of his romantic feelings, he normally never held back in his confidences to Lecter. He did not want to think about Dolarhyde or the feral thrill of stabbing him, did not want to remember that elation; he smiled instead, entombing the recollection of his evil behavior, and went to sleep dreaming of Mr. Lecter’s hands on his face, his warm breath so near, then the gifts and soft intimacy in the rest of their evening together.

His happy slumber was shattered in the dead of night when he woke coughing and immediately determined that he smelled smoke. A terrible, wretched laugh traveled through the walls, echoing through the hall to assault his weary mind. Leaping from bed, he took the lamp from his table and bolted down the hall, horrified to see that the smoke emanated from the master’s bedchamber. 

Will burst into Lecter’s room and ran to the bed, discovering that the master lay completely unconscious whilst his bed curtains were consumed in flame. 

“Sir, wake up!” He cried, but to no avail; Lecter’s eyes remained clamped shut, as if the smoke had deepened his sleep. “Sir -- please, you must get up --”

He ran to the bureau and retrieved the basin of water which sat atop it, returning to the bed to splash the master’s face while he continued, between coughing and waving the smoke off, urgently calling his name.

“What the devil?” Lecter demanded, sitting up quickly, disorientation clearing as Will took his hand and tugged him roughly to get up. He took in the sight of the burning curtains around the bed and urged Will, “Come, help me take these down.” 

They hurriedly unhooked the curtains and tossed them to the ground, where Will poured more water over the flames, then the two men stomped out the last stubborn remnants with their feet. 

“Sir, someone has made an attempt upon your life,” Will said with worried certainty, “You must find out who, as soon as --”

“I know who has done this,” Mr. Lecter determined, still out of breath from shock and fast dispatching of the flames. He glanced down at his own damp nightshirt and began unbuttoning it as Will averted his eyes and blushed deeply. 

“You may look upon me without danger now, Mr. Graham,” Lecter resumed in a few moments.

Will turned back to find the master in his dry red dressing gown, his face flushed from the fire, skin dewy with sweat and water, a damp fringe of hair falling over his brow. Belatedly, Will realized he had come running into the room wearing the most suggestive of the nightgowns which Lecter had gifted him, the delicate one with a low v scalloped neckline and eyelet embroidery, bell sleeves finished in ruffles. He had been much more concerned with probably saving a life than his own state of undress. 

And now here they were -- Lecter in only his dressing gown, which revealed a strong chest covered in greying curls -- Will in this scant little slip of a garment, which really would have been a better choice for a summer’s night -- yet he had worn it purposefully to delight himself with fantasies of the master’s affection.

“Should...should I call for Jimmy?” Will asked, cutting through the silence which had elapsed with them staring at one another. 

“Certainly not; let the servants enjoy their rest for the night. Now then, Will, take this blanket.” Mr. Lecter wrapped a warm maroon blanket around Will’s shoulders and guided him to a chair away from the pile of blackened curtains. “Simply wait for me here a few minutes whilst I discern what has occurred. Can you do that?”

“Of course I’ll wait for you, sir. Please be careful.”

“I always am.”

Lecter disappeared from the room, leaving the teacher huddled in the blanket, illuminated dimly by the low light of the lamp. Will had plenty to do in the fifteen minutes or so of his absence, in considering all that had happened so quickly, his pounding heartbeat chasing after sensations of fear that had blossomed into sensuous longing, then desperate anticipation.

“It is as I thought,” said Lecter as he came back in. “Tell me, Will, why did you suspect this fire was caused by a miscreant?”

“Because I heard a haunting cackle in the hall when I first smelled the smoke,” Will explained, rising from his chair to meet the master in the middle of the room in front of the bed. “An eerie, shrill laugh of pure malevolence.”

“Did the laugh seem to probably emerge from any member of the household whom you have met?”

“Certainly not. It was deranged.”

Lecter nodded. “Quite so. Miss Chiyoh is of a charitable disposition, and often cares for those in the village who have fallen ill. She has a patient who lives with her upstairs, someone she looks after. The patient has a laugh such as you described.”

“And this patient set fire to your bed?” Will asked, baffled. “Why would you then allow this person to continue under your roof?”

“It was only an accident, Will. For that matter, you need tell no one else of it. I know I can trust your honor, as you are not in the habit of blathering gossip.”

“Well, certainly not, sir, but--” 

“And now I think you had better go back to bed; I can go down and sleep upon the couch in the drawing room for what is left of this night.”

“Very well, sir.” Will turned to depart with a soft, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight? Are you really leaving me in that short, blank way after all that has just occurred?”

“You said I might leave.” Will turned to face him again, this handsome, deceptive and irresistible man who had him always in yearning suspense. This man who would hide from him at every chance, and beg Will to see him anyway. 

“But not in such a brusque and unfeeling manner,” Hannibal complained, making Will laugh -- was he truly beginning another round of confusing flirtation _now_? Naughty man. It was hardly to be believed. “You have just rescued me from the jaws of death, Will Graham. Would you stand on ceremony?”

“I suppose I might at least shake your hand.” Will raised his eyebrows and smiled as he stretched his hand out.

To his surprise, as soon as Lecter touched him, all humor faded from the master’s face. He took Will’s hand in both of his own and pressed it to his heart. 

“I knew you would do me good from the first moment I saw you, Will. From the moment I beheld your incomparable features, the expression in your angel eyes, blue as the heavens who sent you down to save and torment me in equal measure. Go, then, my savior, good night.”

But he still held Will fast, both with his intense gaze and his clasp upon Will’s hands. The master’s hands were hot, caked in the sweat of fire and emotional upheaval. His heart thudded harsh and quick under Will’s curious fingers, and the teacher stared at him, feeling his own heart would surely burst, filled and ripened with every word Lecter had spoken. 

What could he possibly, _possibly_ say after such a speech? His mouth had gone dry as appropriate replies rang through his mind all tangled together, impossible to extricate logically.

“I am glad I woke up when I did,” he managed, immediately regretting the bland phrase.

Embarrassed, he made once again to leave the room.

“So you are really going?” Lecter persisted.

“I am cold,” Will admitted, rubbing one sock-clad foot over the other.

“Cold? Oh, then you must leave.” Still the master did not release him physically; he held onto Will as if for dear life.

This could not be sustained. What could Will do to wake the master from this strange, dream-like possessiveness that threatened to take him over as well?

“Sir, I believe I heard Jimmy or Brian moving about downstairs.”

“Ah.” Lecter lowered his eyes and finally let go of Will. “Very well. I shall see you tomorrow.”

“You should not have to sleep upon the couch, sir.”

“I shouldn’t? Well, my bed is entirely soaked. Where else might I go?”

“You might…” Will blushed, bit his lip and then finished, “You might sleep in my room, Mr. Lecter.”

They both ignored the obvious existence of several wonderful guest rooms right above their heads, any of which would provide a perfectly adequate place for the master to rest.

“Might I? You are so kind to me.” Lecter’s voice was low and throaty; Will must turn away from his intent, hypnotic eyes to be brave enough for what he did next. 

Will could not help himself; perhaps he was already lost. Possibly he had been so since killing Dolarhyde, and letting one sin in had opened him to another. He was entering further into the formerly forbidden passageways inside himself, and if he was lost, he would cherish and savor every moment of the sin to come.

In Will’s room, he could not meet Lecter’s eyes; instead he whispered, “Will you take my hand again?”

The hand was taken, was pressed to the master’s cheek; Will’s name was spoken reverently. Mr. Lecter truly believed him an earthly angel, but how misconceived a notion! He was a devil, a murderer, but here and now, held to the face dearest to him in the world, Will again felt beautiful. 

“No one has kissed me,” Will explained on a halting breath as the master’s eyes seared into him.

Lecter’s mouth fell open and he said Will’s name again, his hand trembling around Will’s own.

“No one has ever touched me.” He drew closer, looked up in whole-hearted, enraptured surrender. “I want you to be the first.”

His desire for it to happen in this way, unwed and with no promise of security, left him completely vulnerable to scandal, but he needed Lecter’s kiss, the master’s hands on his body, much more than he needed to take another breath or feel his own heart beating. What else could he do?

Lecter cupped his face and traced the shape of his ear, slow and worshipful. The low lamplight and dwindling fire in the grate gently illuminated his noble face, where Will found his insuperable desire perfectly mirrored. They might not ever be on equal footing where it mattered to the world, and Will might never know the secrets his beloved held from him so insistently, but here and now it seemed that two people had never understood each other with more exacting, intensely arousing certainty. 

“I want you to kiss me,” Will whispered when Lecter pulled him closer and breathed upon his mouth, scenting him and _almost_ brushing their lips together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would have been an almost 10k chapter, so I had to make it into two. The next part is coming right up 🖤
> 
> I'll just add that the aesthetic of Royal Affair-style Mads and Prince Char-style Hugh is _very_ inspirational to this fic. 🔥


	9. Chapter 9

Will did not know where to put his hands; he trembled -- he needed Lecter to guide him through this. His heart squeezed over every hot, heavy beat and he whispered again, “I want you to touch me, sir.”

Lecter let out a low growl that sent pleasure skating down Will’s body and hardened his cock. The master grabbed at his back and pressed Will firmly against his own body, then captured the younger man’s lips in a soft but consuming kiss. 

And suddenly Will knew _exactly_ what to do with his hands, as kiss built upon deeper kiss -- his mouth apparently understood how to open to the master’s exquisite tongue and slide his own against it, tasting their mutual lust in dizzying detail. One hand flew to Lecter’s shoulder and the other clasped the back of his neck, then tugged out the ribbon loosely binding his hair. This unraveling opened another floodgate, the two of them moving fast, every instinct colliding in unified purpose, as without breaking the harder, more demanding kisses that burst between them, Will untied the cord of the master’s robe, while Lecter reached for the hem of his nightgown.

The robe slid from Lecter and fell to the floor; Will’s nightgown was lifted over his head and fluttered downward to the same fate -- they stood naked, lit in moonglow and fire, and took a long moment simply to stare. Will eagerly looked over every line of Lecter’s body revealed in full -- his broad shoulders, the rippling muscles in his arms, the hair which covered his chest and trailed down his stomach -- firm but slightly round as he had imagined, beautiful, sensuous, every detail sublime -- down his stomach to the erection which was so very large, perfectly shaped and thick that it frightened Will a bit at the same time he wanted every inch all to himself.

Lecter’s eyes raked from Will’s astonished, lust-glazed stare down to his smooth chest and stomach, his breath catching at the hardness of the younger man’s aching cock bulging as Will shivered with a soft whimper of pained pleasure; his needy, weeping member had grown even harder when Lecter stared, so that pearly drops now dripped from the head.

“My God,” Will breathed blasphemously, still fixing his ravenous gaze upon his soon-to-be-lover as Lecter sighed, “You cannot be real. You defy beauty itself, you exceed it, you are heaven incarnate.”

They flew back together, arms wrapped around each other, kisses turning sloppy, tongues lavished around mouths and deep inside, Lecter’s teeth tugging at Will’s lower lip before he sucked it, growling again, then urged him to the bed in a few quick, chaotically harmonious steps. Will was flung back upon the soft sheets and Lecter’s hot, demanding mouth was sealed to his neck, teeth digging in, his hands restlessly traveling over Will’s naked form, tweaking a nipple, knuckles dragging down his side. Will had one hand in the master’s hair, trailing his fingers through the long locks and tangling it, breathing in smoke and spice on the body of his beloved and feeling he had come all the way home for the first time in his life, even if it was only for one night -- it was all he needed, to keep this memory forever. His other hand draped over Lecter’s beautiful, smooth back, tracing his spine and wandering curiously downward -- the journey temporarily interrupted by his sudden surprise at the harsher nipping of teeth at his neck.

“Ahhh-- sir, do you _bite_ me?” Will moaned, amazed at the wanton sound of his voice, a shameless tone he had never expected another to hear. 

“Mmm, yes I do, my dear.” Lecter’s eyes burned down into him when he lifted his face over Will’s with devastating, teasing mischief. “Do you like it? Or wish me to stop?”

That was as long as Lecter could wait before kissing his neck again, but he did not resume biting until Will begged, “Please do it again, sir.”

“You may call me Hannibal,” Lecter chuckled, adoringly it seemed, into his neck. “I think you most likely should.”

Will wriggled, annoyed at having to wait for another bite from that perfect mouth, the pain that was already getting to be an addiction, the feeling that the master wanted him so much as to be rough and commanding. 

“I know that, sir,” he answered, blushing brighter when he understood his own reasons for maintaining the formal terms. It was not only his need to remind himself this was one stolen night of time and not an engagement, not a certainty nor a commitment -- it was the sultry thrill of addressing him as “Sir” when they were stripped bare of all but sweat, dripping desire from their cocks and pushing their bodies together just so in a grinding motion -- it excited him deeply.

“Naughty, naughty boy,” Lecter warned, pinning his wrists to the bed and laying a bite to his neck so hard it almost broke the skin. He licked at the teeth marks he had left in pale, soft, vulnerable skin and sucked harshly, marking Will. 

The pain seared through him like a brand and Will moaned so loudly that Lecter covered his mouth with one hand and gave him a reproving smirk. “You’ll wake the whole household. Rest assured I’ve barely begun showing you what I think of your body, Will, your beautiful face, your mischievous, provoking ways.”

Will’s eyes rolled up as Lecter resumed placing long, wet, sucking kisses all over his neck, then bit his shoulder. “Oh!” he cried out at the sharper pain of a bite upon his old injury.

“What is it?” the master asked in concern, stroking Will’s shoulder and arm. 

“It’s an injury from childhood. My aunt once grabbed me there and shoved me into a room -- I am sorry, this is the last subject one ought to discuss in such a moment…”

“Will,” Lecter shook his head, kissed his shoulder carefully. “Nothing you could say would make me think you anything less than transcendently gorgeous, nor desire you less profoundly. But I have touched you here before, I have taken you by the shoulders and you never cried out in pain.”

“You were so gentle, it did not hurt,” Will smiled as a tear slid from his eye. 

“Would you like me to make love to you gently?” Lecter returned his smile and caressed his face.

“Yes,” Will murmured, “And no. Do you understand?”

“I do understand, my infinitely complicated darling. For once I understand you perfectly.”

Lecter took his time, kissing Will’s chest next, licking and sucking his nipples, biting down with just enough pressure to bring back the ecstasy of sweet pain, pleasure spreading from the wet, dusky peaks of flesh to make his cock so hard now, yet he never expected --

“Aaaahhh -- sir!” He whispered out the pleading cry as he came, shuddering, some of his plentiful seed coating Lecter’s belly, his pupils hugely dilated as pleasure blotted out every other sensation for a few dizzying moments -- immediately followed by embarrassed blushing and repeated apologies.

“I don’t know much, but I am certain I was not supposed to finish so quickly, before we even…” Will was halfway through his hoarse, baffled explanation when he realized that Lecter had climbed down the bed to take Will’s cock -- still hard and reverberating pleasure -- into his mouth, sucking, moving his head back and forth with expert skill. Will collapsed back on the pillow and tipped up his face as his mouth fell open with a silent scream of euphoria; Lecter was pushing him past pleasure into something he had never felt nor known existed. His aching member was overtaxed by sensation and the excessive bliss of the master’s mouth _hurt_ yet somehow Will never wanted him to stop.

The master clutched his hips obsessively, then pulled his mouth off and smiled up at him. Will had never seen him so happy. 

“My beautiful, sensitive, responsive boy. You have waited this long to feel the pleasure which may be brought by the art of love--”

Lecter’s choice of words pushed cupid’s arrow deeper into Will’s heart for more excruciating tenderness. 

“I want you to reach completion as many times as you possibly can,” Lecter assured him, his voice dark and raspy with desire. “I want to be the one to give it to you.”

He caressed the soft curves of Will’s ass and said something very low in Lithuanian, which Will was almost certain was a curse of disbelief. “How gorgeous, how irresistible you are. Will you turn onto your stomach and go on your hands and knees for me, dearest? I would give you more pleasure at once, if you like.”

“I’ve hardly touched you,” Will said, red-faced with regret at not having shown enough reciprocation.

“Will, if you touch me, I will most certainly finish very, very quickly, and unlike you, I cannot restore myself to full vitality quite so soon afterwards.”

Will had not realized his face could get hotter or brighter, that he could feel a long, enveloping shockwave of fresh pleasure coursing through him in response to simple, straightforward words acknowledging the gap in their ages. But the only verbal response which seemed suitable to such a proclamation was the one which Lecter received.

“Yes, sir,” Will nodded, eagerly positioning himself as requested, feeling exposed, incredibly anxious to please the master and not make another mistake, but quickly after, as Lecter stroked his ass cheeks, then teased him with a long caress of his cock against his hole, Will felt more than beautiful. He felt mad, flung out past the careful restraints of his sensible former habits, _savagely_ desirous of having Lecter inside him, taking him so hard and deep. 

He never expected Lecter to kiss his entrance, had not been aware from any rumor caught at school; this particular aspect of lovemaking had been omitted from the whispered advice of the older boys who bragged of their secret conquests. Now he found himself delighted prey to the master’s tongue, dripping saliva liberally and purposefully on his tight hole before lapping at it again and again, moaning and licking deeper. Will’s legs shook and he could barely stay upright; his cock had gone from softly resting to rigid again within a few minutes of this decadent attention, which he clearly recognized as _preparation,_ only making it more arousing.

“Good god, sir, please give me more of you,” he wept and moaned, and Lecter obeyed him at once by easily dipping his thumb inside Will.

Yes -- easily, as Will was soaking wet from the master’s licking and kissing, and the glide of that thick digit inside him, even to a shallow extent, made Will emit breathy whimpers as Lecter groaned with the clear desire to take matters much further.

He drew his finger from Will’s body and grabbed the boy around his middle, bringing him up into his arms, Will’s back pressed to Lecter’s front, the master’s arousal thickly nudging between Will’s cheeks. Lecter kissed his neck, then muttered, “Turn over again.”

Arranging Will on his back with his legs spread, Lecter asked if he had “anything to help” with a meaningful look, his politeness and desire to be gentle so obviously threatened by his desperate lust that Will might have laughed or cried or both at the sight of his dear overwhelmed face.

“Yes, in the drawer just there,” he blushed, and as Lecter procured the lubricant he gave another throaty growl at the implication of its presence in Will’s room.

He used a great deal of the lubricant to render his hand and Will’s hole slick, then pressed his index finger carefully inside Will and kissed his mouth, licking deeper as his finger slid further into the tight, virginal embrace of Will’s body. 

“Oh, Will,” he sighed, breathing out further incantations in his native tongue, spells it seemed, with the power to bewitch his young lover.

“Your hand...is so much bigger than mine, sir...oh, great God!” Will gasped blissfully, grabbing at the master’s shoulder. 

“Does that feel good, my darling?” Lecter purred. He added a second finger, pumping harder and deeper, and Will somehow found it in him both to moan in rapture and poutingly beg for more. 

“My dear, this will take quite a long time,” the master soothed, running a hand over Will’s damp curls, tracing his cheek then his lips while he dragged his fingers slowly in and out, rubbing deliberately over the pressure point inside Will that made pleasure bloom strongest of all. Will grasped his arm and stared in shock, still impatient for ever more. “Because if I took you in the deepest and most intimate manner too fast, I would hurt you. And I won’t hurt you, Will.”

“I trust you,” Will agreed, and these were not words he shared lightly. He did not trust easily, and it caused him continual astonishment that he should choose to share himself heart and soul with such a mysterious and conflicted man.

“My darling,” Lecter smiled again, and he fucked Will with three fingers, opening him with the most tenderly careful, but meticulously pleasure-focused ministrations.

If one of Lecter’s fingers had been startlingly more to take than Will’s own, three formed a matter of electrifying intensity. Will had never felt so _full,_ so alive and wanted, and he had most definitely never sworn so many times. The words began to blur and tumble all together in the darkness and the slick heat of Lecter’s hand fucking him open. 

Finally satisfied they might take the next step, Lecter stroked his cock and lined it up to Will’s sopping, relaxed hole. “Look into my eyes, keep trusting me,” he urged gently. “Hold onto me tight. It will still hurt at first, but you won’t be harmed, I promise.”

“I know,” Will smiled and the smile grew into a grin; he had never felt so excited and ready. “I want this, sir, so much...I want us.”

“Then let yourself have it,” Lecter begged him huskily. He began to sink in with gradual slow pressure. Their eyes locked and foreheads pressed together. “Will, let yourself be happy. Take all of me, now.”

Slowly, slowly, he sank deeper, his girthy shaft enough to make Will feel he was split open. Will moaned and mouthed desperately at Lecter’s lips while the older man shivered with pleasure. “You’re perfect, my Will,” he gasped, and it would have been hard to describe the sensation filling him along with Lecter’s thick erection, it was something like being given far, far too much of what was so excessively pleasing that the sensation went beyond its natural pain. It was a _fullness_ of body and heart that made Will tremble almost convulsively from head to toe. The master kissed his sweaty brow, softly soothed his whines of overwhelmed ecstasy. 

And then the moment came that Lecter was fully seated, clasping one of Will’s legs around his back to reach this point, every bliss-inducing inch of his warm, powerful cock pressed into Will as far as it could go. Will never knew it was possible for emotion or pleasure to run this deep. In shock, his hands shot out and clamped tight to the sweat-slick, hot skin of Lecter’s back.

“ _Hannibal_ ,” Will pronounced aloud for the first time, shaking, shaking too much. His nails dug into Lecter’s skin.

“Do you want me to stop? Does it hurt?” 

“Harder,” Will pleaded with tears in his huge blue eyes, “Please, faster, more.” 

Lecter groaned in joy and did as he was asked, fucking solidly into Will with long, deep, firm thrusts, all the way out and sleekly, devastatingly deep back in, and Will wrapped his arms and legs tight around the master, pivoting his ass to take every stroke impatiently. The master leaned back to loosen Will’s grip on him only so that he could lay open-mouthed kisses to his chest again and lick his nipples before thrusting in harder than ever. Will’s toes stroked down Lecter’s calf, feeling the strong muscle that defined his whole body and the tension making every line of the older man tense and hard. 

“How I want you,” Lecter moaned, now wrapping a hand around Will’s throat and lightly squeezing, introducing a new flavor of dangerous pleasure that made Will’s arousal flare wild and out of control. “How I have wanted you from the first moment, wanted this. My angel.” 

He drove into Will relentlessly, kissing his neck, sucking again the sore places he had already claimed with fresh bruises and bite marks, burying his face in Will’s neck as if seeking solace from the intensity. Will held him close and encouraged the savage, soft and rough tenderness of it all. The prideful master huffed ragged breaths into Will’s neck as the waves of pleasure roiled to their breaking point, and when he climaxed, his composure shattered into a helpless moan of his lover’s name. 

A warm, wet sensation filled Will as he understood how powerfully he had been claimed, in every way a man could mark him as taken. Panting, Lecter planted kiss after kiss on Will’s lips until regrettable biology necessitated him to pull himself from the tight hold of Will’s body. 

“Touch yourself, let me see you,” Lecter pleaded, nodding down at Will’s still rigid cock where it lay heavy on his stomach. “Please.” 

Will brought himself off to another earth-shaking orgasm with only a few by now well-practiced strokes of his own hand, and at the sight, Lecter gasped again, “Too beautiful. You make me want...if only…” He shook his head, then pulled Will into his arms and held him tightly, Will’s face nestled against his chest and the softly scratchy hair there, Will having been silent with awe since Lecter came. He had not made a sound even when he came for a second time, disintegrating in tribute to Lecter’s desire, falling apart for his master as if it was what he had been made to do. As if there was no escape from this sin that felt equally as delicious, as terrifyingly immense -- more so even than killing Dolarhyde, he realized. 

“Shhh...I’m here,” Will sighed melodically, and Lecter brought the blankets up to cover his shoulders, then began falling asleep, so content in Will’s arms, with the younger man’s leg flung over him, his nose buried in Will's curls until his breathing slowed, became rhythmic. 

“I’m here, Hannibal,” Will repeated although his lover was fully immersed in slumber by now. Perhaps he said it into the night to convince himself it was true, this was real and unending, this was all that he felt or wanted, and they truly could keep it forever. He lay awake for hours, cradled in Lecter’s arms, without convincing himself of anything at all, except that he wished the morning would never come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Insecurities and confusion...and so much love. Will receives news about his family, and later, guests arrive at Blackstag, not all of them invited...


	10. Chapter 10

Rain splattered against the windowpane as Will’s eyes slowly opened the next morning. Everything felt surreal -- the bed with its tangled sheets and blankets smelling of manly musk and Hannibal’s cologne, Will himself half-knotted within the bedding, naked as the day he was born. The silence of all else in the world except for the pitter-pattering raindrops, the warm crackling bloom of a new fire in the grate, the muffled sounds downstairs of Abigail’s exultations and Miss Bloom convincing her to settle down for breakfast.

Will was unsurprised to wake alone; he realized however that the silence he imagined in his soul, quieting the world like a suffocating vapor, was _solitude,_ loneliness that tasted almost immediately of regret. He had been so sure last night that he could stand this, take it as a matter of course, being another object among many in the master’s pursuit of pleasure in this world, accept that it would not become a recurring event and represented no future bond in marriage. 

How wrong he had been. In fact, Will could not bear the feeling of deprivation after experiencing the heights of pleasure and following his adoration for Hannibal to the sweetest sin. He felt _used_ with no one to blame but his own impetuous, infatuated self. He felt abandoned without any right to the emotion. Worst of all, he felt shame.

He had given Hannibal everything of himself, his _chastity,_ his innocence. He had made himself unspeakably vulnerable with one who controlled his very fate in the world. What if their relationship were to sour now that it was consummated -- what if Hannibal were to dismiss Will without reference? Where would he ever go, what would he do? He had no one else in the world. It angered him, even knowing that Hannibal would almost certainly never treat him thus, it angered him to live in a world structured to insult him by such dependency, to dub him unworthy of future prosperity because of sexual exploration outside of marriage and low social class, two qualities in a person that always spelled ruination.

Hannibal had relit the candle in the lamp on Will’s bedside table, and in the drawer Will found the jar of lubricant had been neatly replaced, sitting atop the sketch from Hannibal that was still one of his favorite gifts from the master because it was so personal. But he had to hide his love from the world, tuck it away in a drawer, put on a contented smile of deferent appreciation for his steady employment and more than comfortable accommodation. How could a poor, plain teacher expect more in life? How dare he pine for so, so much more?

Will felt it all crashing down on him; his entire body ached with exertion and the resulting throb of lost virginity, in addition to the injuries still smarting from the fight with Dolarhyde. He curled up on his side and wept bitterly, gnashing his teeth, grasping at the sheets in his fists. How could he have lost himself so entirely to vice -- first to murder and then to lust -- how could he have felt so adored, protected and _held_ last night only to wake up a _nothing_ and a no one all over again?

The door opened quietly and Will could do nothing to hide his wretched state from whoever it was that entered. He was disgusting, sobbing at the scene of his crime against God’s commandment, he was an impatient, greedy boy who could not wait to meet someone of his own station who might marry him; he had ruined himself for every prospect of matrimony without ever considering how precious his purity was before he gave it away, lost forever.

“Will,” said Hannibal softly, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him with a sigh of concern. Through burning eyes still smudged in purple-yellow bruising, Will saw that the master had come in with a tray of breakfast which he now set on the table before placing a gentle hand on Will’s face, stroking through his curls, leaning down to kiss his tears away. “You did not think I had left you so?”

“Of course I thought you had,” Will bleated woefully, his voice shaking, “You _should_ leave me. What is done is done, I have no pretenses, no illusions about our relationship.”

“Leave you, the morning after making love for the first time in your life, when you are still recovering from a shock and several injuries?” Hannibal frowned. “Never. I would never do such a thing to you, Will. It would be wrong.”

“I don’t want you here out of some sense of...obligation,” Will fretted, sitting up awkwardly, finding a crumpled handkerchief and blowing his nose, batting tears from his soaked face. How he hated the evidence of his own weakness. 

“That is unfortunate for you.” Hannibal regarded him with firm, patient affection, taking his hand, unoffended by his red nose and what must be an absolutely absurd appearance of his bruise-mottled, weeping face. “Because I feel a deep, implacable obligation. I care for you greatly, and never would have been with you last night if that were not the case. I am here now because I _want_ to take care of you. Because you deserve it, and it gives me joy. Do you believe me?”

“I’m such a fool,” Will declared, gesturing wildly with his free hand. Hannibal kissed his other one and examined it carefully, from the scabs on his knuckles to the old scars on his palms. He began kissing each injury, letting Will go on ranting. “I’ve run mad, debased myself, made a mockery of the Christian education which was so deeply instilled in me, where was my humility, my sensible outlook after so many years of honing it to protect me?”

“I’m not sure where your humility and your sensible outlook were, my dear. Are they back now, is that why you refuse to believe yourself cherished and assume I will want nothing more to do with you?”

Will shook his head. “Sir, I was _raised_ to believe my very existence an imposition, an unwanted burden. I was taught for years to keep myself completely pure as it was the only value I had to bestow on the world, being a _good boy,_ following the rules, not nurturing ambition.”

“I cannot stop thinking of you,” Hannibal professed, understanding it seemed that Will did not want to be held at this moment, that he required space to get over his anxious tumult. “Every moment of every day, Will. I don’t know why you can’t see yourself.” He squeezed Will’s hand softly. “ _I_ see you.”

“And what do you see?” Will sniffled, licking his tear-stained lips where salt clung to old and newer scabs. 

“I see my wonderful, beautiful, brave and talented boy. I see myself in your eyes, as if we were always meant to meet and share this time together. It means more to me than anything. I see my best friend, Will.”

“Hannibal,” Will sighed, going to him now with open arms soon clinging about his neck. The master had dressed in his usual fine apparel, a flawless suit, and Will suddenly could not tolerate the barrier between them which was represented by the exquisite fabric covering his body. He began feverishly plucking buttons open, shoving Hannibal’s shirt off, kissing his lover’s lips as more tears spilled from his eyes. 

Hannibal held him snugly and met each kiss with ardent passion, standing only to remove his trousers before he swept Will up again as if he weighed nothing at all, and laid him on the bed, lavishing his mouth with desperate worship over every sensitive place he had already identified on the younger man’s body -- Will’s neck, covered with suck marks from the night before, his aching, hard nipples, the softest dip in his belly where his breath sucked in when he was aroused, the delicate skin and bones of his hips, his shaking thighs, and finally his cock, enveloped again in the tight, knowing heat of Hannibal’s mouth. 

Will's erection grew steadily with every glide of the master's expert tongue; Hannibal moved with long, fluid strokes until he had taken Will in full, his nose pressed to the dark curls above the younger man's sex. Will's mewls of astonished, confused elation seemed to electrify and inspire Hannibal; he went on breathing through his nose and sucking at Will as if his lover's pleasure was truly his own; he was breathtakingly devoted to drawing it out. Will felt the essence of his excitement dripping liberally onto the master's tongue, heard Hannibal humming in satisfaction at the taste, and he cried out weakly with a hand pressed to his own brow, “God, it's too much, I can't--”

He swallowed back the words, _why do I need you so much?_ and it was difficult to repress a single thought when in such pleasure he thought his heart might stop any moment. Then Hannibal began to prepare him for the taking, firmly stroking his cock while lapping at his entrance as if he savored the most wonderful taste in the world, afterwards making Will even slicker with lubricant. 

Will was only a leaf clinging for its life to a tree, about to be ripped away by a wind too powerful to resist, Hannibal’s power over him, his ability to consume Will with pleasure -- Will had no recourse against it; he would be torn away from every hesitation of rightness and fear, he would crumble to ecstatic dust at the merest touch in just the right place as only the master could bestow it. He was _mastered_ , wholly, irrevocably.

“I want to show you something. Come here, my darling,” Hannibal murmured, sitting on the bed and pulling Will into his lap. He lined his rigid cock to Will’s entrance and coaxed him, “Take me again, every inch, knowing it is all for you. Show me your power, Will, feel how beautiful you are.”

Will moaned and sank down on the slick, throbbing cock beneath him, panting as the thick, hot weight glided inside him so much easier than the night before -- they fit together like a hand in glove, yet he was so achingly, shockingly full. The ache of it was close to pain, as he was still sore from his first night of lovemaking, but even the soreness felt precious, proof that he had been claimed in this way before and the master could take him again, and again -- the ache was so very sweet. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” he cried helplessly, soothed by Hannibal’s caresses on his hips and ass, his wet kisses to Will’s neck as he let out his own husky groans at being so deep inside Will’s tightly nubile body. Will had never cursed thusly before, this being a term bandied about by only the very naughtiest boys at school who were sure to catch the switch for weeks after muttering it at one of the teachers or shouting it in the yard. 

“It’s good, Will, that which you’ve been told is so bad, to take what you want in this life and be selfish about it.” Hannibal grasped his curls in a tight grip and kissed his mouth hard, then thrust up firmly into Will’s ass, occasioning the boy another raucous moan -- Will knew he must be quieter, they were far from alone in the house, but _God_ , God! Hannibal!

“I’m selfish with you, I make no attempt to deny or hide it,” Hannibal muttered with savage lust, stroking and then slapping Will’s ass until his pink cheeks shook, “I want you the way I like to have you, all mine, to spoil and wring pleasure from until you are numb and mute with it. What do _you_ want?”

“You,” Will confessed, learning now to move up and down, sliding Hannibal’s cock in and out with a rhythm that established continual rapture, his lover’s shaft pressing directly to his prostate on every inward stroke. “Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , yes,” he nearly drooled with pleasure, his vision blurring as his orgasm roared closer, more powerful than he could believe -- _he_ was powerful, he was all the glorious danger of heaven and hell melded together, a dark angel, _Hannibal’s_ angel. He wanted no one else to touch him for the rest of his life. _I belong to you._

“I can feel you so _deep_ ,” he gritted out, grinding his ass harder back down onto the girthy cock until he felt again the distinct twinging nudge of Hannibal’s member in his lower stomach. “You’re so big. You’re everywhere. You’re all I can feel.”

“You feel _us_ ,” Hannibal corrected him, his eyes black and wild as thunder shook the trees outside, branches slamming against the window -- as he spilt thickly into Will, fucking harder with insistent slams of his hips to meet Will’s hungry riding -- until the teacher melted into a marrow-deep orgasm, gasping, thinking emphatically, dizzily, _Us, this is us, him and me as one -- nothing can compare_. 

“Ohhhh--- Will!” Hannibal looked _raw_ with pleasure, startled at the waves of it rushing through him; he grasped Will’s throat tightly, intensifying the boy’s orgasm, copious seed dripping onto the master's stomach while he emptied into Will, trembling, groaning. Hannibal rubbed his thumb over Will’s adam’s apple and swore in Lithuanian, his voice rough, crude and gritty, and his eyes said more, his all-consuming, hypnotizing eyes -- they said _you are mine, Will. Mine forever._

Perhaps it was another wildly ill-advised fantasy, but Will could have sworn he heard Hannibal’s thoughts, or simply saw them so plainly in the master’s expression that there could be no doubt. Something held Hannibal back from a full confession, both of his feelings and of his darker secrets, that was certain. But his heart was there for Will on bold display only because he could not hide in these moments; his openness was dragged from him by Will even without the younger man understanding his own ability to do this. If only Will could _hold on_ to these fleeting flashes of certainty he was adored, instead of immediately convincing himself otherwise whenever they were apart.

“Do not worry about the noise,” Hannibal said after a few minutes had passed with them sealed together, heaving breaths they could not seem to catch up with. Will threaded his fingers through Hannibal’s chest hair with a laugh, the first time he had smiled all morning. 

“The noise was considerable. We have been reckless, sir.”

“Everyone’s gone out. It is Saturday. Price and Zeller have the day off. Miss Bloom took Abigail to town to purchase a new coat.”

“Chiyoh and her patient?” Will inquired.

“On a woodland retreat, though likely sheltered at present until the rain ends. Chiyoh is a great huntress and believes it will aid in her patient’s rehabilitation if she teaches her distraught charge the ways of it.”

“That sounds like a risk. This person is already given to violence....” 

_Why will you not speak their name? Why this confounded, extensive mystery, what do you hide from me even as you bare yourself down to skin and bone before my eyes?_

“It’s a calculated risk, and I trust Chiyoh in the matter. Perhaps her patient will benefit, ultimately, from having a more appropriate medium for her rage. If it works, we won’t have any more burnt bed curtains.”

How lightly the master spoke of serious dangers, but Will felt ill-equipped to judge him based on his own impetuous conduct of late.

Will trailed his fingers through Hannibal’s hair thoughtfully, loving the way it had escaped its binding to fall down about his face in a haze of silver-gold, loving the light of admiration in his lover's amber gaze even as he felt a twist of resentment at the secrecy. How did Chiyoh manage to keep her patient always just out of view, creeping out of the house and back in, keeping such bizarre hours and why did she dedicate her own young, promising life to such a depressing and doubtless seldom rewarding endeavor?

Something else Hannibal had said struck a chord and a nerve within him. _An appropriate medium for violent urges._ His guilt over Dolarhyde crept back in to meddle with the intimacy between himself and the master. Perhaps it suited Hannibal to keep his secrets, but Will did not like to hide anything from him, not now that they had been this close. 

Hannibal examined his face carefully, reading suspicion and disappointment over the stubborn secrecy around the stranger in the attic, along with Will’s own guilty conscience and the blood washed from his hands that still clung to his soul. “I would very much like to feed you breakfast and then bathe you,” he smiled, forgiving every impulse of nagging anger Will felt towards him even as it shone petulantly from his young lover’s luminous blue gaze. 

“I think I would very much like to let you,” sighed Will with a complicated smile in return.

***

Will blushed and giggled through the process of obediently opening his mouth to take the bites of buttered toast and fresh fruit which Hannibal fed him with slow, sensuous care. How easy it was in such moments for the teacher to let himself go, almost forgetting his many problems. 

And once Hannibal drew his bath, making the heat-fogged water fragrant with lemon and lavender drops, Will climbed in, then splashed his lover and tugged him into the tub as well.

Will lay languorously enclosed in Hannibal’s embrace, suspended in water and feeling that in this moment of _floating_ it might be safe to say, with his eyes closed and potential consequences accepted, “You marked me everywhere he had marked me. Very nearly.”

To his surprise, Hannibal registered no astonishment at the bold remark, but hummed contemplatively, his own eyes closed, his body completely relaxed. “Yes. I cannot stand that he left marks upon your skin. I had to replace them with my own.”

Will licked his bitten lips where Hannibal had stopped just short of drawing blood, then stroked his neck where the master had gripped him tight, replacing Dolarhyde’s attempt to strangle him with a possessive, demanding squeeze of his own strength. The bruises on his face had been supplemented by Lecter’s deep, sucking bruises on his neck. Perhaps, Will reflected, if he revealed more about the fight with Dolarhyde, Hannibal would understand. There was more he wanted to know, besides, about the master’s own relationship with his tenant. If Hannibal would not be forthright about Chiyoh’s patient, he at least owed Will transparency on this subject.

“I liked it,” he whispered, fresh tears pricking his eyes. He had not realized how badly it would hurt to say it aloud, but there came a strange rush of relief even in that pain. “Killing Dolarhyde. I knew he would come after us again, try and hurt you as well, perhaps -- he was obsessed with you. He’d stop at nothing. I wanted to tear him apart.”

Hannibal was silent for so long that Will felt a strike of terror in his heart. “Have I frightened you?” he asked, turning to look back at his lover’s pensive face. 

“No, not in the least.” Hannibal embraced him again and nuzzled his face into Will’s uninjured shoulder, kissing him consolingly. “I’m honored at your confidence. And in awe of your strength, your courage. I want you to stop seeing your actions as merely...grotesque but useful. Your instincts are beautiful, just as you are beautiful in every other part of your make-up. You should nurture them rather than tormenting yourself with regret for every perceived sin.”

“Every _perceived_ sin?” Will questioned, his brow knitting. “Murder is...the ugliest act a person can commit. It is beyond sin...it is inhuman. I committed an inhuman act --”

“In self defense.”

“I _enjoyed_ it,” Will repeated emphatically, “Too much. You may forgive me, but the world never would. I am freakish.”

“I cannot see the wrong in relishing an act of necessary justice and protection, Will. I do see the wrong in your continual habit of blaming yourself.” He wrapped his strong, irresistible arms around Will and the younger man relaxed against him with a sigh.

“It’s easy for you. You can do as you like and evade judgement. We don’t move in the same world, Hannibal.”

“I can only move towards you, Will, even if I must cross boundaries between worlds to do so.”

Pretty words. Will was obviously far from immune to the master’s incomparable charm, but he still had questions.

“Who was he to you exactly? Francis Dolarhyde?”

Hannibal sighed and tucked his face into Will’s shoulder. “At one point, I had considered Francis a potential protege. Later, I lost interest and ever since he has smoldered in resentment against me. My interest, as you know, is notoriously difficult to procure and harder still to maintain.”

“Protege? In what regard?”

“In regards to business,” Hannibal revealed patiently, beginning to toy with Will's wetly tousled hair, wrapping locks around his fingertips, then releasing to watch them unfurl. His body was sturdy and delicious behind Will, the water was luxuriously fragrant, and part of the teacher felt more like napping, forgetting every serious concern, at that moment. Who knew how many mornings like this the two of them would be able to share?

“It is difficult to find like-minded people in the world when one is eccentric,” Hannibal elaborated. 

“ _You,_ eccentric?” Will marveled, earning himself a soft pinch to the belly that made him chuckle as his lover identified a ticklish spot.

“I thought Francis was a like-minded individual but as it turned out, that did not especially matter to my ability to care for his friendship.”

“Do you grieve him at all?”

“Only in the afore-mentioned light of my rich desire to have been there by your side so that we might have dispatched him together. He sealed his fate the moment he attempted to harm you.”

Will shivered despite the heat of the bath and turned slightly, kissing Lecter’s collarbone, then his damp cheek, where a scratchy layer of beard had come in since yesterday.

“No one has ever protected me before,” he admitted.

“If it were not for you, I would be worse than burnt to a crisp in my sleep,” Hannibal mused, “I would be empty, infuriated with the world, infuriated with God, and what emptier struggle could there be? God did not care.”

“Do you believe in His love now, do you think He cares?” Will wondered, uncertain of his own views on the matter. How greatly he was changing at Blackstag. Once he never would have questioned the beliefs of his upbringing, only the crueler methods of his relatives and teachers.

“I believe in love,” Hannibal answered carefully, tracing Will slowly from knee to thigh under the water. “Not His love. And angels, or at least one.”

Will could not quite bear with this speech; he ducked his face and laughed self-consciously. “Really, sir. What did you tell them about where I was and what I would be doing today, incidentally?”

“Oh, I told them you had been taken ill and would have to consign yourself to bed rest all day,” Hannibal said with faux seriousness. 

Will stood from the bath, water dripping from his slippery naked form as Hannibal’s eyes followed his every move. “In that case, I suppose you had better take me back to bed, sir.”

That he did, but neither of them focused themselves properly to the matter of “rest” until they had rendered themselves thoroughly exhausted once again, playfully wrestling in the sheets until Will’s joyful submission once again wiped his mind clear of every other concern.

***

With each parting from the master, Will found his anxieties hassling him almost ceaselessly. He despised his own addicted yearning for constant affirmations from his lover, but without Hannibal there to sweep him off his feet and into their wild passion, he would resume his terrors: that he had surrendered to two sins, one unforgivable, the other reprehensible and dangerous to his future. That he had corrupted himself and started down a path towards wickedness, already too far gone for future redemption -- this seemed horribly likely. He still dreamed about killing Dolarhyde, fantasized about reliving it, wished he might have the excuse to kill again, to satiate the storm inside him that relished harsh justice and craved the taste of sweetly forbidden blood. 

He also seemed powerless to end the affair. Where once his thoughts had been reined in by use of "Mr. Lecter" and "Sir," now his mind possessively insisted on _Hannibal_. When they returned to their normal daily roles and the natural separation therein, he was reminded anew they came from differing worlds and the bond between them would inevitably one day shatter under the weight of this. Still, he went on surrendering to Hannibal’s every stolen look, the precious secret kisses whenever they were alone, and the nights of lust-soaked sheets and tangled limbs, kiss and bite-swollen lips indefatigable, moans and cries half-smothered in each others’ hands. He could not resist the master; it was foolish even to try; he was mastered. 

But he could feel guilt -- even if he could not change the wrongness of his essential nature, his lust for blood and his blasphemous, all-consuming obsession with Mr. Hannibal Lecter, Will could recognize how warped he had allowed his nature to become. 

Never, never had he been happier than since coming to Blackstag, never had he _known_ that such joy could possibly be tasted and poured over him like holy wine. Yet his holiness, this new religion of illicit romance and dreams of further violence, it was all devastatingly profane. 

Will began to have only three moods: fierce and startling euphoria when in Hannibal’s arms, caring and careful normalcy of demeanor in teaching Abigail, and utter inner torment in the between-times.

***

Two weeks later, when he received a letter from Lockheed Hall, Will read his cousin Margot’s account of her mother’s death with a sort of numb disbelief. He supposed that if Aunt Lavinia had ceased to breathe, she must be put into the ground. Yet it was hard for him to accept that such a person, who had wielded tremendous destructive power over his young life, _could_ die. The damage she had rendered to his concept of self and safety often seemed irreversible. He was too wrapped up in heavier, more pressing concerns to understand how her passing made him feel; however, his primary concern shifted to Margot, who was grieving and requested his presence. 

He went at once to the garden where Hannibal was reading and informed the master of his impending departure for Lockheed.

“Why do you hasten back to that place you despise, to pay respects to the aunt who treated you so loathsomely?” Hannibal asked, appearing surprised and concerned.

They stood rather awkwardly together by the entrance to the hedge maze, Hannibal fidgeting with the book in his hands, Will fumbling for words when none would do. The only way to fully make Hannibal understand would be to take his face gently into his own hands and kiss him with all the tenderness in his soul. The kiss would blossom into wild, grieving passion, and perhaps then the master would _feel_ how it wrecked Will to have to leave him, even for a few weeks. He had to uproot himself from Blackstag as if he cut into a vital part of his own being to do so. It would not surprise him if he left a trail of blood behind upon his departure; that is how much it hurt to leave.

But how could he speak thusly about a love affair which he might be entirely overestimating in longevity and significance to the life of a man twenty-two years his senior and his social superior in every way? 

“I’m going for my cousin Margot, she has always been very good to me, and she is grieving her mother. There are many arrangements to be made in the wake of Aunt Lavinia’s death, and I am certain Margot’s brother Mason is of no help in the matter.” There. A sensible explanation, and perhaps from the yearning in Will’s gaze, Hannibal would _understand_ the rest of what he could not bring himself to say, “ _I love you, I never want to leave you, I will be yours forever._ ”

Hannibal merely looked confused. “I did not know you had another cousin at Lockheed. You never mentioned Margot.”

“I am sorry sir, it was very remiss of me not to tell you of the kindness which she always showed me, especially when it was otherwise absent in that cold and imposing home.”

“It is commendable of you to fly to your cousin’s aid, Will.” Hannibal pressed his lips together, turned the book around in his hands. “But how can I know you will come back to-- Blackstag?”

“Of course I shall return,” Will assured him with a soft smile. “I am very fond of...Blackstag, as you must have noticed.”

“Do you have all you need in the way of money? You must take my carriage, of course.”

“I have quite enough money, and will not deprive you of the carriage and horses as I may be away for several weeks. I can easily hire a reputable coach in town.”

Hannibal’s pale brows shot up; he actually dropped the book and seemed to forget it in the grass. “ _Several weeks?_ Must you stay away so very long as that?”

Will’s heart skipped a beat, and he felt torn between gratification at the master’s dismay, and frustration at the necessity of having to work himself free of Hannibal’s grip. It was difficult enough to walk away from his lover; being pressured about it was a terrible feeling.

“Most likely. If it is to be any longer, I will send you notification. I do not believe I shall be gone long enough to cause any problems with Abigail’s studies; we will resume from where we left off as soon as I am able to return.”

Hannibal looked as if, in this moment, he did not care a fig for Abigail’s studies or indeed any other topic save for the one he blurted: “But can you give me no firmer indication of when you will return?”

He was so beautiful, brought down to human gracelessness by his emotions, so warm, near and touchable. The knowledge that it would be so many nights before they could touch again made Will feel he would burst into tears and cancel his planned journey, stubbornly remain fastened to the master’s side as long as he was wanted. But he could not worsen their parting with a breakdown on his own part, and still he strove to condition himself as to the likeliest outcome of this affair, which any rational soul would know -- was not marriage. He knew the most common ending to a story such as this: himself, melancholy and alone, leaving Blackstag for a final time rather than temporarily. 

Will shook his head as the tears filled his eyes. He lifted Hannibal’s hand to his lips and pressed several lingering kisses there, then he murmured, “Haven’t I given you enough, sir? Please, I must away. I will come back to you, you have my solemn word.”

He had forgotten himself and shown open affection out of doors where anyone might have seen them, but it could not be helped. He could only go if the master released him; elsewise he never would have summoned the strength.

“I trust you, dear one.” Hannibal had resigned himself, Will saw, most likely taking pity on his own obvious struggle in maintaining composure. “I wish you a safe journey. Fly back to me, my little bird, when you are ready.”

“I shall,” Will promised, curious as the master dipped a hand into his pocket and drew out a series of coins. 

“Let me pay you your salary in advance so that you will have enough money for your travels,” Hannibal said very seriously; he was so adorable and irresistible that Will really might have screamed.

The coins he poured into Will’s palm were excessive. “Sir, this is easily thrice what you owe me,” the teacher objected.

“It is a long journey and you will have to stop at an inn for the night -- what of your accommodations? I must know you will be comfortable, have enough to eat and drink, and that the fare will be of a sufficient quality to be worthy--”

“ _Hannibal._ ” Will smiled, finding that the endearing gesture had slightly soothed his woeful mood. He took the master’s hand, opened it and returned half of the coins. “That is more than enough. I thank you for your…”

_Generosity? Kindness? For teaching me how to accept that someone else values me for who I am, irrespective of what I can do for them? For showing me that I am capable of holding so much love inside me that it should kill me or at least burst like a flood from my body, drowning the world?_

“Thank you for being...yourself, sir,” Will blushed, wishing the deeper details of the truth were easier to confess.

“Thank you, my dear boy, for just the same.” Hannibal bowed, then tucked a wayward curl behind Will’s ear, gently stroking his cheek. He turned and walked away towards the house, only, it seemed because he intuited this was what Will truly needed of him. 

Will bent to retrieve the book from the grass and discovered that it was a volume of Keats’ poetry, his own favorite. He clasped the book as if it would save him from the heavy departure, give him a piece of the master to bring along when he revisited the ghosts of his past. For the first time, he allowed himself to believe Hannibal’s previous words, _”I cannot stop thinking of you,”_ as more than the impassioned hyperbole of an infatuated lover about to bed him -- but as a true, ongoing state of mind and heart. And smiling, he held onto that feeling tightly, or perhaps it held tight to him, _He may truly love me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading as always! ❤️
> 
> Next time, we'll begin with Hannibal's POV, which I am _itching_ to share -- boy, does he have some _thoughts_ regarding all that Will has told him! Also: What Happened to Aunt Lavinia? Hmm...


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: Some grisly murder details; also brief references to child abuse and adult sexual assault.

Hannibal was still reeling in ecstasy at his affair with Will and the new revelation that his young lover shared his violent nature when the teacher was called away to Lockheed. The timing of this shift, just as they were growing, as it seemed so inextricably close, rankled on Hannibal’s sense of security in the relationship which had redefined his emotional landscape, reshaped him like clay in Will’s hands.

Yet for the departure of his lover, Hannibal had only himself to blame. He had killed Lavinia Verger during his last absence from Blackstag upon matters of “business,” and indeed what more pressing business could there be than to pay retribution to his beloved’s abuser? Of course the Vergers had hushed the matter up, spoken of Lavinia’s death from the consumption. No wealthy family would want their name smeared by such a scandal. 

In his vicious attack, Hannibal had dislocated both shoulders; while she wailed in agony, he began cutting off her hand, whereupon she fainted, saving herself the further hideous pain of losing both hands under his ruthless blade. As he sawed through flesh and bone, he imagined himself as Will Graham -- an enactor of justice in a cruel world, and felt a rush of joy, paying this foul woman back in kind for her treatment of an innocent and precious boy whose safety and comfort had been left in her responsibility. 

He did not take any trophies from Lavinia, as she was too despicable a creature even to be eaten. 

Hannibal had planned the attack carefully so that he took Lavinia from the house on a quiet day when the servants and the rest of the family were at church for hours. He returned her before they all came back, placing her again in the bed where she usually liked to lounge whilst complaining of false ailments and launching miserable verbal assaults on all around her. 

Given the way she treated the servants, Hannibal could only imagine the impact of her evil words on the still-forming mind and self-perception of a naive child like Will. Hiding in the shadows, he had bided his time, listening to the maids who gossiped of Mason Verger’s dissolute misadventures around the country, his squandering of his allowance, which thankfully could not put even a small dent in the Vergers’ considerable fortune. Not one penny of this fortune had been set aside to help Will make his way in this world, although he was in every quality superior to his cousin. It further enraged Hannibal. Apparently, Mason was a despicable predator who purchased an orphanage only to torment the children, and had he been in residence at the time of Hannibal’s visit, he would have met a similar fate to his aunt.

How terrible, to think of what his Will must have endured among these disgusting people. How impossible, to understand that Will had ever been trapped here when all along he had always been coming to Hannibal.

It had never occurred to Hannibal that his lover would go “home” upon hearing of Lavinia’s death. After all she had done during his childhood, why would that ever be the case? He had not seen this Margot or realized there was another cause which might draw Will back to the place where his worst childhood memories lived.

The parting from Will was more than he could endure, but endure it he must, as he had thrown all of his strength into concealing his delight at Will’s memory of killing Dolarhyde. Will had spoken with deep shame, little guessing how perfect he was in the eyes of his lover. Hannibal wanted to _tell_ him, ease away his doubts, but in revealing his own murderous ways, he might frighten Will from his side forever. 

He had longed to tell Will how fully the boy embodied every dream he had never even dared to dream over the many long, lonely years of his solitary life. How could he have ever predicted he would find such a beautiful, brilliant, lusciously depraved young man to potentially _share_ his life, fully, in mutual reflection, understanding and acceptance? But how, how to join their lives if Will remained entrenched in stubbornly narrow moral views? And how to circumvent the boy’s apparent dislike towards the notion of marriage? 

Since the night after Dolarhyde’s attack, Hannibal had considered Will’s words in the drawing room, letting them seep into his understanding like subtle poison to his confidence. It seemed that Will thrived on independence, that this was an essential component of his dignity. But was Will truly opposed to matrimony, or could Hannibal -- perhaps slowly, over time -- open his mind and heart to the idea it could make them endlessly happy? It was hard enough to preserve his waning patience on the subject of Will’s Becoming, but it could be achieved. After all, Will was naturally disposed to violence, gorgeously so. His craving for blood and righteous justice would surely only intensify now that he had sated it for the first time. 

Waiting to see his ring upon the hand of his beloved, to give Will his name and know that the boy would forever belong to him -- that was much, much harder. 

His secretive and prideful nature demanded that he hold back from a direct proposal until he could be certain of Will’s acceptance. However, the more irresistible impulse came from his fear of heartbreak if the result were rejection, or worse, revulsion. After all, Hannibal had only recently learned he was capable of love -- and not ordinary love either, but awestruck, desperate obsession, the need to be with Will _always_. How could he bear to have this exhilarating emotion crushed and ruined so soon after it bloomed? 

Indecision, previously a common problem for Other People but not to his superior intellect, became the overruling sensation. Hannibal felt trapped and decided to seek an appropriate medium to release some of the tension from his miserable, confused and lonely mind during Will’s absence. 

Sketching made him feel worse; he could only draw Will -- smiling shyly at him, dressed only in bedsheets, his curls clustered about his forehead, cheeks flushed with pleasure -- Will, reading on his favorite couch in the drawing room, his expression so adorably thoughtful, his concentration enough to make Hannibal jealous of a _book_ \-- Will in the bathtub or across the dinner table, merrily chasing Winston and Abigail through the gardens, only Will, but never enough. 

He was a good enough artist that the realistic images he produced seemed too lifelike; they tore at the newly delicate skin of his heart. He hid the drawing journal in the locked drawer of his desk and decided to try composing upon the piano instead. In the past, this method had been nearly as effective as murder and cookery to soothing his occasional worries through artistic expression, painting the air with fluid and flourishing notes, making something out of nothing. But he could not conjure Will with the keys beneath his restless fingers, the wild unpredictability of songs attempting to reproduce the boy’s influence on his heart. 

Cooking did not provide solace either; he burned five custards and a Sunday roast in one afternoon -- he had lost his focus; he was spiraling. Will had been away too long, two full weeks by now, and Hannibal also was gone, absent from his common sense and control, a stranger to himself, unravelling into dull and grating malaise.

He needed a more definitive method, even a harsher one, to calm his dejection. Without seeing and touching Will, his doubts over the future were building exponentially; he must restore his competence in scheming prior to the boy’s return, rather than facing Will again as this, a shadow of himself, weak, needy, confounded.

Abel Gideon had long been marked down in Hannibal’s mental list of intended future victims, by virtue of his annoying, consistent snide comments upon their every meeting. The doctor had a certain uncanny knack for identifying any (obviously minuscule) potential flaw or weakness in Hannibal, and making a wry comment about it for purposes of his own amusement. How very discourteous.

Hannibal’s mood simply did not allow for his usual carefulness to avoid potential detection; he was reckless when he went to Gideon’s house one evening and accepted the doctor’s bemused dinner invitation, brutal when he dismantled the doctor using as his artistic template a recent anatomical paper detailing the organs of the human body placed outside it. However, it was _vastly_ satisfying to vent his frustration by finally silencing Gideon’s rude tongue, a delightful business to slit his throat and enjoy the surprise at his daring which flashed in the man’s eyes for the first time. 

Perhaps Dr. Gideon should have held that tongue rather than using it to comment, while passing his guest a glass of wine, “ _You appear almost despondent of late, Mr. Lecter. Ever since your ward’s teacher left Blackstag. No wonder you sought company at such a grey and unfortunate interval, but if only that company could be_ Will Graham. _A mere poor boy, a plain wisp of a thing who blew in from nobody knows where, yet he has you entirely entranced. How the mighty have fallen. Pray tell, incidentally, do you like_ Roast goose? ” 

That same irritating, sing-song tone, words spoken so lightly, as if Gideon’s position as town doctor, an integral figure to their community, would protect him when he insulted the master of the largest estate in the district.

Gideon had smirked at the faint signs of Hannibal’s annoyance and offense at his incisive observation, the way the great Mr. Lecter’s eyes narrowed for a split second as his hands shifted on his lap. Still, he did not intuit that he had spoken his last words until he learned exactly how fast Hannibal could cross a room and reveal a knife, then drag it across a man’s throat, dark eyes glittering, coal black by the dwindling firelight, a pleased snarl about his lips.

Hannibal kept the liver for himself, cooked a fine dinner with it in his victim’s home before departing the scene of his crime, using the potatoes and vegetables which Gideon had prepared, pleased to find they were relatively tasty as well.

***

The only lawful authority in the district was a constable named Jack Crawford, a decent and sharp-minded man with whom Hannibal had a congenial passing acquaintance. It used to amuse Hannibal to make pleasant conversation with Crawford when their paths met in town, all the while hiding his many past crimes. After killing Gideon, unleashing his taboo prowess here, so close to home, Hannibal was mildly concerned about the potential investigation -- but only mildly. Crawford could have no reason to suspect him of the crime, unless he managed to make a connection between the artistic master of Blackstag hall and the ornate aesthetic of the murder tableau. Even then, such an inference was hardly _evidence._

Gideon was found splayed on his own dinner table, his heart, lungs, and other vital organs neatly sliced out and left atop the flap of skin drawn back down over his hollowed torso. Each organ was placed in its anatomically proper position, mocking the doctor’s profession. Crawford investigated thoroughly, of course, yet for two more weeks no consequence of this fell to Blackstag.

***

After this much-needed exercise in catharsis, Hannibal felt reinvigorated to purpose. He could not continue stewing in the juices of his new insecurities; he must take definitive action to prove whether his affections were fully reciprocated, whether he had at least some chance of possessing his darling Will in body and soul as long as they both should live.

The morning after Dr. Gideon’s demise, Hannibal busied himself with writing numerous letters to his most impressive and affluent acquaintances in the neighboring counties. They were invitations; guests were soon to be at Blackstag Hall.

***

Will arrived at Lockheed to find it a scene of shocked despair. The maid who had tended after them as children, Lissie, came running out to greet him, clasping his hands, looking white as a ghost. Will remembered Lissie as a tough, jaded woman, rendered so by too many years with Aunt Lavinia as a mistress, and he had never seen her so fearful. 

“Oh Will, Miss Margot’s in a dreadful state -- for something so terrible has occurred, I cannot say...I _shan’t_ say, and you mustn’t either. Not ever, do you understand?”

“No, Lissie, I must say that I do not comprehend your meaning. I understand that Mrs. Verger’s passing has been a terrible blow. But come inside and sit, let me give you a drink of water…”

“It’s not that, not the mistress’ passing, Will -- there’s been another crisis.”

After his long journey Will was exhausted and had hoped to pass a quiet and reflective afternoon of consoling his cousin before seeing to household affairs beginning in the morning. Yet he shook himself immediately from the road-weariness and steered Lissie into the sitting room. Everything about the house was as he remembered it, all furniture and decor to the best quality, but entirely plain, punishingly so. He found a jug of water in the kitchen and filled a glass, pressing it into the older woman’s work-reddened palms. 

“There, now, sit. You must breathe, Lissie, and --” Will was interrupted by the sound of Margot sobbing a floor above him, and he felt his heart pierced by concern for his dear cousin.

“Go, go, she needs you. I shall do as _you_ said, for once,” Lissie’s cheeks were flushed and tear-stained, but a tiny smile played about her lips. Will’s reassuring presence had relaxed her from her panic at his arrival. “My, what a confident, well-looking young man you have grown into. Quite gentile.”

Her smile and her words were not entirely complimentary; in fact, there was an edge of resentment there for Will’s fine suit and more decisive mannerisms. He appeared for all the world to be a gentleman, a delicate deceit of Hannibal’s influence and his own deepening maturity. Although they had never gotten along, he partially appreciated her statements and discarded the quiet mockery in her tone.

“Thank you, Lissie. I shall go to Miss Margot and ensure all is well.”

Margot sat on her bedroom floor rocking back and forth with her face in her hands. Her glossy hair was entirely loose, spilling like dark water over pretty shoulders encased in an ivory nightgown. “What I’ve _done,_ ” she cried into her fingers, “Oh, God, why?”

“What on earth has happened?” Will asked, shocked at his elegant cousin’s breakdown. He sank to the floor and embraced her while she collapsed against his chest and whimpered out a traumatized confession.

“We told everyone that Mother died of consumption, but it was really -- she was _murdered_ , ripped apart! I knew it must have been Mason, for who else could be so awfully cruel?”

“Oh, Good God,” Will sighed sharply. 

He had known of course that Mason was unstable and violent, had experienced his share of bumps and bruises from his cousin’s abuse in their childhood, but never had he expected such a grisly consequence. That Mason should turn on his own mother was shocking -- he had always placed such huge importance on _family,_ while dubbing Will an illegitimate addition. Resentful of anyone intruding upon the claustrophobic bond he cherished between himself, his mother and Margot, Mason had a long-running joke that Will must have been switched with his real cousin at birth, as no actual sharer of Verger blood would be so “pathetic and useless.”

“Since Mother died, Mason’s been worse to me than ever, and twice he crossed a line...I could not fight him off, you see, not until last night, when -- oh, how can I tell you, Will?”

“If...if you mean to tell me that Mason…” Cold steel fused to Will’s voice as he rubbed his cousin’s back in comforting circles, but felt hatred solidifying harder than ever in his heart towards Mason. “That deplorable wretch. I’ll kill him.”

“I have killed him,” Margot sobbed, drawing back to look into Will’s shocked eyes. “He came for me again and I -- I had secreted a knife from the kitchen in case it should happen -- I couldn’t take it happening again, so I k-kill -- I stabbed him until he _stopped._ ”

“Shhh, now, Margot, you only did what you had to do,” Will sighed. “I wish I had arrived sooner, had I only known…”

“His _face_...his dead eyes, Will. The awful feeling of the knife pressing through his skin and drawing blood, how can I ever go on? It’s all I can see now.”

Will swallowed, remembering his own ecstatic reaction to killing Dolarhyde. He could not relate to her revulsion at the physical act she had committed, but he could empathize with her guilt.

“You are the victim here, and you have done _nothing_ wrong,” he assured her, “But tell me, where is the body?”

“We buried it in the gardens, Lissie and I. Thank God no one else saw...Mason had dismissed most of the other servants, further isolating me, but in doing so he made it easy to hide what I had done. He shall be missing now till eventually presumed dead upon one of his wild larks. Oh, Will, I’m all alone. They’re both dead, Mother and Mason, gone! I know they hurt me, and I should feel safe without them, but they were my _family_.” Margot’s wide eyes stared into Will’s soothing ones, desperate for answers. “Why don’t I feel _safe?”_

“There, there, you are safe, I promise, and you are not alone. We’ll close up affairs here, ensure finances are properly arranged, and then you should come with me back to Blackstag, take some time to recover and decide what you would like to do in life. You are an heiress, you may do _whatever_ you like, find your own kind of peace in this world as you richly deserve." 

__

__

“Won’t your employer mind you bringing your grieving cousin to his estate?” She sniffled and rested more steadily against Will’s chest. 

“Not a whit.” Will smiled through his sadness, reflecting that he could not fathom the master saying “no” to any special request of his. 

***

During the carriage ride back to Blackstag, Will told Margot about his new life as a teacher: his endearing student, the convivial staff and beautiful estate, even Winston...and eventually he spoke of the dashing Mr. Hannibal Lecter.

“You quite adore him, don’t you?” Margot observed with a gently knowing smile.

A few weeks of quiet stability and help from Will had started Margot on the path to recovery. She was still sometimes shaky and easily distracted, but some of her natural joviality was slowly beginning to return. For his part, Will was delighted to see his cousin smiling again. 

“I suppose it was simply too difficult _not_ to adore him,” Will confided shyly. He knew Margot would never breathe a word of any secret he confided, any more than he would tell hers.

“Are you having an affair?” She asked it very frankly, soft conspiratorial amusement and fond teasing mixed with mild concern for him. 

Will sighed. There was no hiding the truth from Margot; there never had been. “Yes,” he murmured to his folded hands upon his lap, blushing deeply.

“My dear cousin.” Margot patted his hand and he looked up to see her still smiling. “I hope your Mr. Lecter knows how lucky he is, and that he makes you happy.”

“He makes me…” Will trailed off, almost wanting to say _He makes me,_ me. Wasn’t that the most accurate way to describe the strange, all-consuming bond between himself and the master? Who was he anymore, without Hannibal? “He makes me absolutely _giddy,_ Margot.” Will grinned, feeling more excited the closer they rode on to Blackstag.

“As long as he takes good care of the most thoughtful, sweet and kind-hearted cousin in the entire world, he has my hearty approval.” Margot spoke with that sort of blunt sincerity which told Will she would rapidly change her mind and withdraw said approval if she ever heard that Hannibal treated him shoddily. 

Will thought to himself that once his cousin saw for herself what a wonderful man had redefined his life, she would understand how very lucky he was. 

But as it developed, they had quite a wait before Margot could be introduced to Hannibal. They arrived at Blackstag in midmorning on a Thursday, which was typically a very quiet and mellow day of the week. There would normally be nothing much afoot aside from the household going about their daily duties, but today the whole estate seemed to be in a bizarre upheaval. 

Jimmy and Brian were flying about the inside of the house, making many arrangements for apparently incoming _guests,_ an announcement which Will had to ask them to repeat since he found it so hard to believe. Hannibal absolutely hated having guests in the house, considered the whole notion of entertaining others to be an annoyance, although Jimmy had confided to Will that Hannibal was actually a most excellent host, eminently charming and entertaining. It must have been the tragedy of his childhood, followed by his dreary mood during restless travel over the years thereafter that wore out his natural inclination towards being sociable.

And now, for whatever reason, this interest appeared to have revived. Hannibal himself was not present to provide an explanation. Brian elaborated that the master had taken the carriage to a neighboring estate to convey several guests back to Blackstag personally. Will introduced Margot to the household over the loud squeaking evidence of Abigail’s delight that they were to have even more company and Winston, who came running up to greet his owner with plentiful affection.

If Will was not mistaken, Miss Bloom and Miss Verger seemed quite taken with each other at first sight. Alana offered Margot a tour of the house, while Will resigned himself to the task of coaxing Abigail back to her studies, despite her delirium of anticipation to see “real ladies and gentleman of the fashionable world” so soon at Blackstag. 

Abigail’s mood reflected almost the exact state of mind Will had been in before he actually got back to Blackstag in person to find it so… _changed,_ Jimmy and Brian all aflutter with extra work, putting out the finest china and silver and changing the drapes and tablecloths from dark purple and black silk to cheerful robin’s egg blue and sage green, fretting over the dinner menu. 

Will did not _want_ to see the real ladies and gentlemen of the fashionable world; he wanted to see _Hannibal,_ wanted his lover all to himself to the extent he preferred to be alone to sulk and pout if this could not be the case. The wearisome travel and emotional toll of entering Lockheed again, walking through all of those frightening memories only to discover fresh grief and terror engulfing his cousin -- all of it had left Will especially in need of Hannibal. The mere fact of their separation would have been enough to render him deeply needy, but the added strain on his soul from the rest of the circumstances made him now quietly desperate.

***

Will’s most recent letter had predicted his arrival to fall the following day, so that Hannibal was unaware of his beloved’s ordeal in waiting to see him. Had he known, Hannibal certainly would have sent one of the servants to fetch the Du Mauriers, as undertaking the courteous errand himself was merely a distraction and a way to fill otherwise listless hours that dragged in the absence of his sweetheart.

Hannibal’s plan in inviting his most glamorous, wealthy acquaintances to Blackstag was simple, but involved two strategies: firstly, he wished to show Will off and have his notable acquaintances see for themselves what a remarkable young man had captured his heart. Second, he hoped that interacting with the social upper crust would show Will he _could_ fit into Hannibal’s world and be welcomed there. He only associated with the most pleasantly polite and interesting figures of high society, and expected therefore that young Mr. Graham would receive kind interest, while his guests proved colorful and intriguing to the teacher, expanding his view of the rich as untouchable and superior. How could any of them help admiring Will? Hannibal could not fathom even the possibility of such an outcome.

He was slightly irritated, however, to observe the flirtatious tone which Miss Bedelia Du Maurier began using with him immediately when he handed her into the carriage, alongside her mother and sister. Just as quickly he sought to politely but firmly rebuff her with a colder response that merely seemed to puzzle her. Bedelia went on flirting, obviously encouraged by her mother who had subtly set her cap at Hannibal as a marital prospect for her lovely daughter. 

In truth, Hannibal had not been thinking of Mrs. Du Maurier’s ambitions on this point, perhaps because they had never held interest for him or prevented their continued friendship when years passed without a proposal. Further, he had forgotten altogether that he and Bedelia did routinely exchange delicate and playful flirtation upon their occasional meetings, and that he used to enjoy this habit as a fleeting and ultimately superficial pleasure.

_When she sees me with Will, Bedelia will cease in her flirtations, as it will be obvious my affections lie elsewhere. She will welcome Will into our social circle with open arms, then, for she has always been good-natured and sensible. What claim could she think she has on me, after all?_

Pressed firmly into his own corner of the coach to avoid the “incidental” brushes of Bedelia’s slender arms and gloved, dainty hands, Hannibal refused to distress himself with worries that his careful plan might come to ruin.

It was nearly dinner time when they arrived back at Blackstag, and after ensuring all of his guests were shown to their elegant accommodations, Hannibal heard from Jimmy that Will and his cousin Margot Verger were already there. Immediately he began looking all over the house and grounds for Will, running himself near ragged in the futile search. Wherever he went, it seemed that Will had just left that place, as servants, Abigail and Misses Bloom and Verger informed him. 

Well, he would certainly be at dinner. Hannibal assured himself of this in order to preserve his impeccable exterior calm when it otherwise would have disintegrated. He stopped short after a search of the gardens proved empty aside from a few of his guests, the Boyles and Nichols, admiring the rose bushes and labyrinthian hedge maze, muttering quietly to each other that it was too cold for further investigation at present; their breaths puffed on the frigid air; Elise Nichols pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and murmured that the journey had left her quite ravenous.

Hannibal ran a hand over his hair, straightening its mildly tousled state, and squared his shoulders, putting on his most irresistible hosting smile and striding up to the group of guests. 

“I am delighted to hear you’ve brought your appetite,” Hannibal grinned, “You are all in for a treat, as it is going to be a sumptuous and memorable feast.”

Once again pulling himself from the brink of chaotic feelings, Hannibal led the Nichols and Boyle families inside, still chatting with warm and inconsequential niceties. His heart thumped joyously that he would see Will in mere minutes, only a bit disappointed he had no chance ahead of time to inform the teacher that _he_ among all these fine gentlemen and ladies was the guest of _honor_ for this evening’s festivities.

***

Will’s state of mind had veered from exhausted disappointment at not seeing Hannibal immediately upon his return, to grave nervousness after a conversation with Jimmy had given him more background about a certain notable figure among the master’s guests. 

“Oh, everyone has always thought the master and Miss Du Maurier would one day wed,” Jimmy confided. “They suit so well, you see. She is very sophisticated, intelligent…”

“Lovely, too, I suppose,” Will grumbled, crossing his arms. He had come into the kitchen as another stop in his ongoing and unsuccessful search of Blackstag for the master -- who had apparently returned but was nowhere to be found. 

_Why did he not come to me at once?_

“Oh, yes, Miss Bedelia Du Maurier is absolutely exquisite, everyone--”

“Everyone thinks so,” Will put in, his tone gloomy but an insufficient expression of his inner misery. 

So, after a few weeks’ separation, Lecter’s patience had waned and he had invited this beautiful, intoxicating woman -- his social equal and apparently an ideal future spouse -- to stay at Blackstag. Will had truly never found the idea of screaming on the top of his lungs indoors and in the presence of others so deeply tempting.

It was perfectly evident that Jimmy was confiding to him of Miss Du Maurier’s amazing merits because he believed this was a kind way to subtly indicate to Will that his own affection for the master was ill-advised. Jimmy did not want to see Will heartbroken, but his good intentions at the moment only occasioned Will annoyance, as it seemed so frustratingly condescending. Will could take care of himself, surely that much should be obvious by now, poor, plain and naive though he had been when he first came to Blackstag, unremarkable as his prospects still were.

By dinnertime he found it hard work _not_ to glower, but instead to smile cordially while walking behind Miss Bloom, Margot and Abigail into the dining room. The formerly dark and severe room had been changed to a cheerful, bright place, and the table had never been set out with such abundant indulgences. 

An enormous saddle of mutton with red currant gravy was the centerpiece, but there was also curried lobster with rice, roast capon, and a delectable-looking arrangement of small plates with every available variation of fresh fruit, roasted vegetable, cheese and pudding. Abigail’s “oohs and aahs” were echoed by all else at the long table, aside from Will, who tugged at his shirt collar and wished for nothing more than a quiet, intimate dinner for two. He wanted an impromptu repast alone in the kitchen with Hannibal at one in the morning, made for him by the master between kisses, made for _only_ him so that he felt special again and could touch, tease and kiss his beloved to his heart's content (which was quite a lot).

There at the head of the table was the illustrious master of all he beheld. Hannibal looked completely stunning in a new suit with a blood red cravat and embroidered black waistcoat. Their eyes met and Will could breathe again; the master’s gaze was just as it was prior to their separation. There was the face he loved to look at above all others, those deep, shimmering, complicated amber eyes that seemed to speak implicitly of unaltered devotion.

After some brief words of warm welcome to his guests, Hannibal neatly segued, “It is my great honor to introduce you all to a brilliant young man who has brought much joy into our life here at Blackstag Hall. Mr. Will Graham.” 

With a bold flourish, he gestured to Will, who turned red and stood to bow before rustling back into his seat wanting to disappear -- all those aristocratic eyes fastened on him were too intimidating. He _hated_ attention from strangers more than almost anything.

While they seemed surprised that so much particular emphasis had been placed on an introduction to Mr. Lecter’s ward’s tutor, everyone shared in a toast to Will. Several guests offered polite words of greetings. Will nodded stiffly, keeping his eyes locked on his bowl of oyster soup. His empty stomach roared -- he wished to eat nothing, wanted to run to his room and hide until they could be _alone_ \--

“Are you well, Will?” Margot asked softly, touching his hand where it lay sweaty on the golden tablecloth. 

“I’m...fine,” he whispered, glancing from Margot’s concerned face to the scrutinizing features of Miss Bedelia Du Maurier, who appeared to be staring daggers into him despite the charming smile fixed on her indeed lovely face. 

He nodded out of kneejerk politeness with an awkward smile; Miss Du Maurier dipped her spoon into the soup, her brows still pinched in mild confusion as to the purpose of his presence here and most likely his existence.

From his place directly across the table, Hannibal was still making eloquent and entertaining conversation with his many happy guests, but his eyes kept flitting back to Will, without successfully making contact again. His throat bobbed in confused concern for Will’s obvious anxiety and distrust of this scenario, which he had designed to _ease_ the boy’s stress over belonging in such a setting. He wanted to smile at Will again, bring him into the conversation, but Will would not look at him, was barely eating...this would not do. This was not going to plan; how his darling boy did thrive on subverting his every careful expectation -- but how could Hannibal save his scheme before it collapsed into disaster and pushed Will further away instead of drawing him forever near?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Hannibal will find a way, he always does! 🥰
> 
> This is quite a dense part of the novel with even more moving parts as I'm combining Bronte's plot and well, murder and cannibalism. I hope I remembered all the necessary details in this section! 😄 
> 
> Next time, an unexpected guest arrives (it sure is getting crowded at Blackstag!), more mischief from Chiyoh's mysterious patient, and tensions between Hannibal and Will reach their breaking point. If you are familiar with the book, we're getting closer to the "red string" scene and I'm very excited! 💖
> 
> Thanks for reading ❤️


	12. Chapter 12

Will was grateful at least that the tedious yet nerve-wracking dinner did eventually end, and along with it the ceaseless barrage of small talk among his betters. Every conversation seemed designed to exclude him: discussions of places he had never gone and would never see, debating the benefits and deficiencies among various luxuries he could scarcely comprehend spending money on, but there again, he reminded himself that no one took enough notice of him to intentionally leave him out.

Margot never left him out. Her quietly besotted conversation with Alana ran underneath the surface of the larger conversation at the dinner table, but in every pause she looked back at Will, noticing his growing frustration without being able to relieve it.

“You may use me as an excuse if you should like to make an early exit,” she whispered. “I am still in mourning, after all, and might conceivably wish to go to bed, requiring you to help me on my way.”

“It’s quite alright, Margot,” Will replied with a pained smile. He had no intention of allowing his own struggles to interrupt the much-deserved pleasant evening Margot was having with Alana. 

“Shall we all adjourn to the drawing room for music and coffee? There is brandy for the coffee,” Hannibal explained with his damnable smooth charm, eyes twinkling. “For those who are so disposed.”

_I’m disposed to drink half the bottle of brandy and pour the rest of it directly over your head._

Will bit his tongue, lashed an annoyed look at the master, and in return received an expression such as Winston bestowed upon him when denied an extra biscuit.

So to the drawing room they went. The three Du Maurier ladies clustered with impeccable elegance together on _Will’s favorite couch_ before he could take up a seat, ousting him as much as the Boyle and Nichols broods, who settled on all the other chairs. Margot and Alana were still talking in the hallway, having apparently forgotten to come in and join the rest of the company. 

Hannibal approached him with a tentative smile and eyes haunted by confusion. He clearly intuited that Will was at a fragile impasse between hurt feelings, social anxiety and anger, and too much pressure would make him snap.

Carefully, he murmured, “I had hoped you would enjoy this evening’s festivities, Will. It was never my intention to annoy or mortify you.”

“What do you expect?” Will muttered in vexation, refusing to be taken in yet again by that beautiful face, the rumbling seduction of the master’s voice. “I’m sorry I am not a doll who simply performs as you would _hope_ upon any occasion. If you’ll excuse me.”

He stalked to the small fainting couch by the window in the back of the room to sulk. Did Hannibal really expect him to simply recede to the shadows whilst he wooed his future bride right before his eyes? That Will would calmly accept the natural end of their affair? Perhaps this course of action seemed prudent, illustrated clearly at present through the superior company and his own relegation to the lower sphere. His sphere was namely the dust heap based on the way the guests were glancing at him as if to say, _why is he still here?_

Will used to be so prudent; he wished he had the strength of mind to miss his old sensible ways now they were out of reach, torn asunder by emotion. Try as he might, his love for Hannibal would not listen to reason.

Hannibal cleared his throat, adjusted his perfect suit, ran a hand over his already smooth and flawless hair, and sat down at the piano. Immediately, the guests began cooing praise and calling out song requests, recalling various past occasions when they had been so privileged as to hear Mr. Lecter play.

Here was Hannibal’s world, paraded in front of Will like a play in which he could take no part. He applied a coldly critical eye to the scene. There was his almost ridiculously handsome (former?) lover with large, skillful hands poised over the keys and a teasing smile on his lips while he considered the many requests from his fawning admirers. The Du Maurier women, who looked like variations of the same design on a porcelain doll, the mother only bearing a few strands of white in her light blonde hair to differentiate her particularly from the two daughters. Bedelia was perhaps otherwise distinguishable by the haughty, prideful set of her face, while her sister Sabrina bore a blankly vapid expression.

The Boyles and Nicholses looked like Russian dolls in contrast, as if the Mama and Papa of each family had simply forgotten to stop having quite so many children, equally well-dressed replications of their cheerful but snobbish attitudes. Across the room, Miss Elise Nichols and Mr. Nicholas Boyle discussed the latest theatrical productions they had each seen in London, while their younger siblings spilled like smaller echoes upon the rug along with Abigail. Will was glad, at least, to see his student finally having the chance to socialize with other children; she shone in this setting, chatting vibrantly about Paris until Mrs. Nichols hushed them all. 

“Mr. Lecter is going to play for us!” Mrs. Nichols announced to the children with a firmly shushing clap of her hands.

And play he did, soulfully, so masterfully that Beethoven himself could not have been much more impressive. Will hated it, despised Hannibal’s chiseled profile and the way every note still stirred butterflies in his stomach. When the lush composition at last reached its end, the guests clapped and expressed their awe accordingly. 

Mrs. Du Maurier said very pointedly, with a smile Will found grating, “Now, what about a duet, Mr. Lecter? It has been far too long since we heard you and Bedelia together.”

“Why yes,” Mrs. Boyle regaled, “Mr. Lecter and Miss Du Maurier, you must give us the singular privilege. You pair together so splendidly, it is always a divine treat.”

“As if they were meant to...duet,” Mrs. Nichols tittered, occasioning Mr. Nichols to take her wine glass and set it on the tray with which Jimmy was circling the room.

The tipsy woman’s insinuation was only a charming amusement to the others, but Will swallowed it down like a gulp of arsenic. How certain they all were that this visit was a prelude to a long-anticipated engagement. It set his teeth on edge to think of anyone else touching, much less possessing his lover, taking the Lecter name, living as bride here at Blackstag while he must find some other place to live out the rest of his mournful existence. It was insult to injury to find that his rival was also so vain and superior in attitude, the very sort of person he most disliked.

Hannibal had paused with a slight frown, but before he could form words to express his views on the suggested duet, Miss Bedelia Du Maurier had stood to join him, slid across the room like silk and hovered beside him much too closely for Will’s comfort. With one slender white arm she leaned over him, breath close to his ear while she thumbed through the sheet music they had to choose from. Hannibal nodded at her proposals until he began playing again, an extravagant ballad which Bedelia sang note-perfectly, although the song’s subject matter eluded Will since the words were in Italian.

They truly did look wonderful together, the ideal couple; they _matched._ Bedelia was no childishly naive upstart with thinly concealed dark instability. She was class and glamor personified, and if Will also observed the frigid, cruel glint in her eyes, he supposed Hannibal would have to learn for himself once they were married, that Bedelia would likely make an imperious and manipulative wife as much as a lovely, cultured one.

He could stand the sight and sound of them no longer, their admirable performance, the musical oneness of it all. Stealing away, he assumed unnoticed, he found solace out of doors, despite the cold weather. Pacing kept him warm, as did kicking a few rocks, cursing under his breath and the continuing sensation of his boiling blood; he could still hear the music emanating from the house and almost wished he had never come here at all.

A coach arrived quite unexpectedly then, and from it descended a comely and distinguished-looking gentleman with hazel-green eyes and a neat beard. “Good evening,” the stranger remarked, as if taken aback by the sight of Will.

Will supposed he must look rather odd, red-cheeked from the cold, his wounded pride and an aching heart, all alone outside while music and happy chatter flowed from the house.

“Good...evening,” Will replied, bewildered. It was most odd of this fellow to arrive in such a manner, unannounced and sudden.

“Mr. Frederick Chilton, attorney at law,” the gentleman introduced himself with a sweeping bow. “And you are?”

Will rolled his eyes, still in too irritable a mood to be well-mannered. “Nobody,” he retorted in a surly tone, “And Nothing. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“And I yours, my good young man. But truly, you do not look like Nobody to me.” Mr. Chilton’s smile was unmistakably flirtatious and certainly presumptuous, as if he believed himself irresistible.

“How unfortunate that you should be so mistaken in your assessment,” Will snapped. “I suppose if you are here to see Mr. Lecter, you had better come inside.”

“I am indeed here to see Mr. Hannibal Lecter, although seeing you first, my dear, has been an unexpected delight.”

For heaven’s sake. The last problem Will needed right now was the headache of having a stranger’s desires foisted upon him. Without bothering to reply to the compliments which continued streaming from Mr. Chilton’s lips of Will’s lovely appearance and charming wit, he brought the oily-seeming fellow to Jimmy for appraisal of purpose.

“An attorney?” Jimmy repeated, baffled. “It is very late in the evening, Mr. Chilton, for an errand of business.”

“Well, be that as it may, my business is pressing. I would go to Mr. Lecter to discuss it at once.”

“I shall go and summon the master, you should stay here,” Jimmy indicated, pointing at the nearest chair by the fire in the sitting room. Under his breath, Will heard him complaining, _”Turns up in the middle of the night at a fine gentleman’s house and interrupts him when he is with company, I certainly never…_

“A gloomy, peculiar house, isn’t it?” Chilton observed, looking every inch the dignified gentleman in a chocolate brown suit, although his lustful gaze upon Will was blindingly inappropriate. “It looks as if someone has tried to dress the place up in sunny colors to make it seem otherwise, but I half-expected one of those stone goblins outside to come to life and eat me up.”

“Indeed it is regrettable that they do not possess the sentience to perform such a noble task,” Will groaned, offended that he was left to mind the stranger, as if a teacher’s job was always to watch over anyone who required a guardian, even when off-duty.

“Your clever retorts only intensify your ravishing looks, my beguiling Mr….”

Mr. Chilton had risen from his armchair and crossed the room to linger a little too close in Will’s personal space. Everything about him was what most people would doubtless find attractive: a handsome face and figure, excellent dress sense, polished manners. But Chilton undercut his own potential charm with his slimy flatteries and oblivious refusal to accept that Will was most certainly not enchanted.

“I am not your dear anything,” Will grumbled, stepping closer in return, only from the heat of the moment and the strength of his frustration.

However, this had the effect of positioning them rather suggestively when Mr. Lecter finally came into the room. Will and Mr. Chilton were standing mere inches apart, breathing heavily -- Will with aggravation and Chilton with growing desire. 

“Excuse me,” Hannibal said sharply. 

“Ah, Mr. Lecter, I presume,” Chilton replied, voice bright as Hannibal’s gaze was deadly. They clasped hands, Will turning most likely from scarlet to some unfortunate but well-earned shade of purple in the background.

“When you arrive uninvited at a stranger’s house in the night and demand an interview, it is at least advisable to be aware of the stranger’s name ahead of time, so as to know who you inconvenience with your complete disregard for all known etiquette.” Hannibal glared at him, almost snarled. 

Will felt an unexpected spike of pleasure almost taking him over at the evidence of Hannibal’s jealousy. He was entirely torn between conflicting perceptions -- was Hannibal merely protective of Will as his property, or was the deep love between them much more than Will’s foolish fantasy? Will remembered Hannibal telling him that he had considered Abigail’s mother his own and demanded her faithfulness even without loving her, so he had no reason to elevate his perception of the master’s feelings for him based on this show of annoyance that another had expressed interest.

So why did he _feel_ this way, awash with heady, darkly sweet excitement as Hannibal stared Chilton down?

“I do apologize for the hour and the unannounced manner of my appearance here, Mr. Lecter. Allow me to introduce and explain myself.” Mr. Chilton did so, passing Hannibal a business card in support of his story. “The matter which I need to discuss with you, sir, is an urgent one regarding a recently deceased client of mine. I believe you knew him: Dr. Abel Gideon?”

Hannibal’s flushed angry face became a flushed frightened face for a few seconds before he once again appeared steely in disapproval towards his guest. “Will, please go and resume your place in the drawing room. I shall join you shortly.”

“Of course,” Will replied, irritation returning to blot out his brief joy at the apparent, and perhaps erroneously perceived jealousy. 

Sulking even more, he plodded back to the drawing room and flopped down on the window seat with barely more mature posturing than Abigail. Would this night never end?

Winston rose from his place on the rug where he had been merrily accepting the children’s petting and nudged Will’s knee. With a sighing smile, Will stroked the dog’s head, grateful for his simple affection.

“I suppose that _mutt_ must belong to the teacher, then,” Sabrina Du Maurier observed icily.

She made no attempt to lower her voice in speaking about Will as if he was not in the room. Bedelia Du Maurier spoke even more clearly in reply, her tone cutting as could be.

“Indubitably, my dear. Surely you have observed the resemblance between the two shoddy creatures.”

“Shhh, he is right there, he will hear you,” Sabrina giggled, obviously encouraging her sister to go on just as loudly.

“I don’t care if he does,” Bedelia replied crisply, “Teachers should know their place, rather than mixing with good society. If he comes among us, he must be confronted by the natural disapproval earned by such presumption. Only imagine the arrogance. I don’t know why Hannibal allows it.”

“Mr. Lecter seems strangely fond of that young man.” Sabrina’s observation caused Bedelia’s eyes to narrow. “Isn’t he unusually well-dressed for a teacher?”

“That is of no consequence,” Bedelia remarked, smoothing out her glittering, pure white evening gown. It nearly blended into her skin and made her pale hair look striking, but there was a wickedness in her beauty -- more than that, a despicable pettiness in her nature that turned Will’s blood cold.

“Putting an elegant suit on a poor, plain teacher such as that will do nothing to lift him from his indeterminate and forgettable status in the world. Anymore than placing a pearl necklace on a pig would elevate the animal from the _mud_ where he belongs.”

“I beg you would all excuse me,” Will requested, stepping carefully over a few children who had drifted to sleep while looking at picture books, Abigail included. 

Alana would be in soon to bring the girl to bed; Will must away-- where, he did not know, only that another moment spent in Miss Du Maurier’s presence would end in tears, violence, or both. He wanted to wring her neck, shatter the window and use a shard to slit her throat, cave her skull with the piano bench -- a cacophony of gruesome visions scattered through his thoughts until his hands ached to enact them.

This is who Hannibal would marry? A woman who considered Will, and all those of his social position, working people -- trash, low as a pig, deserving of her mockery? His stomach swarmed with nausea, jealousy, hatred and despair blocking out the one pinprick of light which had come when Hannibal seemed annoyed by Chilton’s attentions to him.

In exiting the room, he nearly smashed into Hannibal, who took him gently by the shoulders and examined his features. “Whatever is wrong?” he murmured, and Will wanted to collapse against him and cry his eyes out, but he held back, still distrustful.

“I suppose that upstart little teacher did not like hearing of himself as a _pig,_ ” Sabrina was saying in that same broad, shameless tone from the drawing room.

“If you were an ambitious, gold-digging guttersnipe, I suppose you would not like others making notice of it either, my dear,” Bedelia answered, sounding extremely pleased with herself and Will’s humiliated reaction to her indictments.

“Shhh, girls, girls, such childish mockeries are unbecoming. Remember your decorum,” their mother belatedly, and half-interestedly, chided.

Hannibal’s eyes blazed with fury; he strode into the room and bore down on the sisters in a tone much louder and angrier than Will had ever heard him use.

“How dare you speak so cruelly of that outstanding young man?” Hannibal demanded as Will stared from the doorway, mortified and more confused than ever. “Leave my home this instant.”

The Boyles and Nichols, who had observed the entire dialogue regarding Will with quiet disapproval for the sisters’ antics, now stared in astonishment. 

“Mr. Lecter, I-I’m afraid there’s been some misunderstanding,” Mrs. Du Maurier stammered. From assuming her daughter would soon be married to the master of this immense estate, to being cast out of it as if _they_ were the pigs and guttersnipes -- what a distance she had fallen in a few minutes time!

“There has indeed,” Hannibal went on, “A misunderstanding on my part, in thinking that many years of cordial relations with your family meant that you would show kindness to my friend. A misunderstanding on yours, thinking you could possibly insult him under my roof and continue to breathe oxygen beneath it.”

Bedelia and Sabrina stared at him, mouths hanging open, while their mother continued to blather meaningless excuses.

“Out,” Hannibal repeated. “Now. My servants will prepare the carriage for your departure. In the meantime, you may wait in the front hall. Afterwards, you may go to the devil for all I care.”

“But Hannibal, after all we shared…” Bedelia could not have been more surprised.

“We shared nothing of consequence and never shall. And I do not recall giving you leave to call me by my Christian name, madam. Perhaps you can remind me why you are still plaguing my sight at present?” Hannibal’s tirade had Mrs. Boyle clasping her hands in front of her heart while Mrs. Nichols gasped; their husbands scratched their heads and looked at each other entirely bereft of understanding. Elise and Nicholas lowered the books that had occupied them and gazed upon the verbal altercation with their mouths forming matching “o”’s. 

Will stepped back in shock as the three ladies walked past him in their way to the hall, utterly disgraced. Sabrina and her mother were loudly weeping, whimpering in fact; Bedelia remained silent, casting Will a bitter glare. He smirked at her.

“Please may I have the honor of talking with you?” Hannibal asked, looking exhausted as he stepped back into the hall to confront Will.

Will sighed. He was still upset about nearly everything that had happened since his return to Blackstag, but how could he say no after the speech which the master had just given, and with that adorable pleading look on his beloved’s face? Those cheekbones, the plush lips, the wild, wet cinnamon eyes, they had surely been sent to destroy Will. 

He parted his lips to reply, no words planned so that the answer would have been an interesting surprise to himself, but at that moment they heard a man crying out from upstairs in anguish.

Hannibal darted into action, returned to the drawing room to tell the guests nothing was wrong, only that one of the servants had burned himself while cooking but would be quite alright. They were all going to bed soon in any case, they said, increasingly baffled by the shenanigans at this fine manor where guests were so seldom invited...perhaps it was becoming obvious why it was so rare an occurrence.

“I have never seen so much dramatic upheaval in one evening,” Mrs. Boyle observed to Mrs. Nichols, who gave a long yawn. 

Will stood in Hannibal’s wake, once again bereft of theory as the master went swiftly upstairs to deal with the real crisis, whatever it might be.

Within a few minutes, Hannibal reappeared and urgently took Will’s hand. “Thank goodness you are still here. Little as I once thought to thank _goodness_ for anything at all.”

“Where else would I go?” Will asked, brow furrowing at the notion he would leave his position without knowing whether the master had need of him.

“Come with me, quickly now,” Hannibal begged, “Before they all go up to bed, we must hush him up. Insolent fool that he is! Come, come.”

Will followed, and upstairs they went to one of the many guest rooms along the winding third floor, where Frederick Chilton lay moaning and bleeding upon the bed. Hannibal shut the door behind them and muttered, “Quiet now, you wretch! It is not a fatal wound, you will recover.”

“Good God! What happened?” Will began asking, but Hannibal shook his head and urged him nearer the bed. 

“Take this cloth and keep pressure on that wound,” he pleaded, and Will pressed the mounded fabric carefully to the place where blood spurted from a deep cut in Chilton’s stomach.

It was a nasty wound, but as Hannibal had surmised, did not appear mortal, as long as the doctor arrived to stitch it up soon. However, it must be agonizingly painful, and Mr. Chilton’s melodramatic disposition caused him to harp upon his miseries with especially lavish vocalizations. 

“Oh, woe is me, the pain, the pain,” he bleated. “Thank you for helping me, you’re an angel,” he added to Will, batting his eyelashes at the younger man.

“It is no trouble at all sir, gracious me, what you must have endured -- who has done this to you?”

“She,” Chilton babbled, shivering in pain, but quite able to keep staring at Will with amorous intent, enjoying his role of helpless victim. “I don’t know who -- gaunt, ghastly creature -- she came upon me like a flash of lightning, burst into the room, and with an inhuman, horrible snarl she split me open, said she’d bleed me dry!”

 _She._ So, once again the violence had been perpetrated by Chiyoh’s patient. And still the master protected his dangerous individual with loyal, unaccountable secrecy.

“Close your mouth at once, lest I do it for you, Frederick,” Hannibal ordered, clearly infuriated for more than one reason. “We will keep this _quiet,_ and you had best not breathe a word of what has occurred to anyone else. I expect you are too invested in the _reward_ that brought you here to risk it by breaking my trust?”

“Your expectation is accurate,” Chilton nodded, and from that point on he remained silent. 

“Please, Will, stay with him, without explanation, without even being very pleased with me at present, please will you do this?” Hannibal asked it, but the request was unnecessary.

“Of course I will stay and help him while you go for the doctor, Mr. Lecter. It is the right thing to do.” Will kept firm pressure on the wound and less of a grip on his unwieldy emotions as Hannibal nodded, then hurried away into the night.

***

The household were all a slumber when Hannibal returned with the new town physician, Dr. Sutcliffe. All but Will, who sat steadfast by Chilton’s side holding the wound to prevent the man from bleeding to death, his arm slightly trembling from the prolonged effort.

A speedy examination revealed that their prognosis was correct: Frederick would not expire from the injury; Dr. Sutcliffe stitched him up, frowning in the process as Hannibal entreated him to know if the lawyer would be well enough to travel upon the morrow.

“I suppose if you were to be exceedingly careful and it is a short distance, it might be permitted,” Sutcliffe mused disapprovingly. “But I do not recommend it by any means. It would be far better to be patient lest he tear the stitches if the carriage jostles.”

 _That would be his problem, and none of my own._ In fact, Hannibal would be delighted at such an outcome. Let this inconvenient, obnoxious man bleed to death en route to whence he came. How _dare_ Chilton come here unannounced, and with such a rude act of blackmail! And to make matters worse, the lawyer had the audacity to flirt with _his_ Will.

To hear Chilton refer to Will as an angel, the way Hannibal used to do between the sheets in a voice of gravel and heat, biting at the boy’s beautiful neck -- to hear Will address the lawyer as “sir” -- he really could have torn the man limb from limb in such moments. The rage still roiled in him, joining all of his other excessive and unpleasant feelings so that he understood with new intimacy, the _agony_ of being in love.

During their private interview, Chilton had confided to Hannibal that prior to his death, Abel Gideon had informed his lawyer that if any harm should ever befall him, Mr. Hannibal Lecter was most certainly the culprit. He had documentation of it and his own witness testimony, and threatened to take both directly to Constable Jack Crawford if Hannibal did not acquiesce to his terms, namely a substantial allowance to be paid him once a month forever after.

Hannibal could not murder the man with so many witnesses about. For tonight, he would simply have to agree to the contract, planning of course to break it by virtue of painful and torturous death whenever it was safely possible to enact the vengeance. He would pack the despicable lawyer off home first thing in the morning.

During the stitching-up, Will had drifted off to sleep in the chair by the bed; now that Chilton was asleep as well and the doctor departed, Hannibal knelt beside his sweet boy and looked at him reverently. He brushed his fingers over that lovely, soft face, wishing to give so many thousands of kisses on closed eyelids and gorgeous rosebud lips, wishing he could rearrange every facet of their existences to give them both what they wanted. 

He carried Will to his own bed, uncertain if his lover would want to sleep with him after such a difficult evening between them. Tucking Will in with tender care, he slid the blankets up to his shoulders and kissed his warm forehead, then wandered back to his own bedchamber to worry, hope and dream.

***

Another full day passed before Will and Hannibal spoke privately again; Will sensed that the master was giving him time and space to consider the previous night’s events and decide how he felt about them. He had not come to any substantial conclusion, however much he appreciated the thought. It was twilight on Friday evening as he strolled the gardens alone, admiring the snow crystallized over the bright red rose petals, the sky all streaked with bright orange and somber lavender, an unsustainable burst of oppositional passions. Like these roses who would soon surrender to winter’s grip, the sky would cede to night within minutes. This between-time of day and night was a good place to nestle in with melancholy reflection on the finite nature of all that was precious in life.

He rounded a corner in his ponderous wandering and discovered Hannibal standing with his back to him, staring at the large stone fountain with its statue of Persphone. Will smiled softly, intuiting that like himself the master was consumed with deep, tumultuous thought and probably did not “see” the fountain, but a thousand unruly contemplations.

What had the master so preoccupied when he had gotten rid of the strange, unpleasant lawyer and hushed up the matter of the stabbing -- all seemed normal again, by Blackstag standards. By now, Will was used to the ominous sense of secrets in the walls, whispering of unseen dangers; he accepted the bizarre, eerie sensation of this as part of the experience in loving whom he loved. Hannibal still had pleasant company indoors doubtless longing for another brilliant piano performance and more of his incomparable wit, so what was he doing here, standing with hands clasped behind his back, as alone as Will?

_Perhaps he knows the time has come to finally end the affair between us. Look how my presence in his world has caused friction, led him to fall out with old friends. Only think what plentiful prospects must await him in seeking matrimony with an equal, and that he has had time to see the folly of continuing thus with me in the meantime. I have only been a bookmark between his more serious affairs; I will leave him now, creep past before he realizes my presence._

Will was unprepared for the end and would prefer to pretend it was not coming until forced to do otherwise. But their awkward impasse had come now to an unsustainable tension. Sure as the violet-tangerine splendor of the heavens above would dip and disappear with the pale moon’s rising and the emergence of evening shadow, their stolen time together in illicit passion would surrender and cease. He processed these thoughts with dull, aching resignation, walking quietly by in such a way as to elude the master’s recognition.

“Are you still angry with me, Will?” Hannibal inquired without turning round.

Will paused, his heart squeezing as he sighed. “No, sir. I am not angry.”

“Well, do not rush back inside, then. Stay and watch the sky with me. It’s beautiful, isn’t it, the brushstrokes of color, absorbing the sun, smothering it slowly. If one had to die, it is an admirable method of cessation, surely.”

“Yes, I’ve often thought so,” Will agreed, standing now by his side, unable to cast his eyes upwards when that distracting, noble and fascinating profile was so near for his admiration. Hannibal was the marvel, the temptation and inspiration to his every artistic and passionate instinct. 

“So you will stay and talk with me a while, my dear?” Hannibal asked anxiously. 

It felt in a way as if they had been catapulted back to the beginning of their interactions, when the master had been uncertain if Will desired friendship or more, proceeding with tender caution where the teacher was concerned. The delicacy between them would rupture, but in the meantime Will adored his odd quirks and courtesies, would cherish every minute gesture of bashfulness and affection knowing how rare they were from the prideful, strong master of Blackstag.

“Of course I will. When have I ever been able to form the word ‘no’ where you are concerned?”

“You may not be angry with me, but you are deeply frustrated,” Hannibal mused, “I can see it in your eyes.”

“Can you blame me? First you summon all of these fine guests here as if to remind me of my inferior station--”

“My intention was to show you the exact opposite,” Hannibal interrupted, turning to face him in disappointment and regret. “The dinner last night was in your honor. I wanted my acquaintances to know you, I wanted you to see that you are welcome in this world.”

“But I am _not._ The Bedelias of the world will never allow me to be made welcome, and why, sir, did you suddenly overcome your dislike of entertaining guests?”

“I’ve been closed tight, clamped shut and armored off from the world since I was a little boy,” Hannibal confided tensely. 

He began walking past the fountain, towards a path enfolded by trees on either side. In lusher seasons, the branches of the slender trees would form a canopy of pink blossoms overhead. Now the path felt like an empty chapel. Will strode beside him, letting the words flow from his lover as the evening thickened to darkness in the sky and he shivered, both from cold and the imminent _end_ of all they shared. He would take this last confession as a gift, whatever it might contain. It must be a prelude to their breaking point, but Will would not disrespect Hannibal with any further interruptions. 

“You have opened me,” Hannibal went on. “You make me want to open up and let life in.”

“How can you say such things to me?” Will lamented, brushing tears from his cheeks. “I know where this is leading, and it is too hard to importune the truth with further fantasies of what I might mean to you.”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean ‘fantasies’? What could be truer than your influence over me, how you have awakened me?”

“Life is truer; the way of the world, the structure of every rule and guiding principle around us. It will not be Bedelia, yet surely you wish to marry. You cannot tell me that a vigorous, sophisticated, wealthy man such as yourself does not desire a spouse to bring the pleasures of domestic life to completion?”

“No, I cannot deny it.” They exited the tree-shuttered walkway and emerged in a clearing, an open expanse of grass, star-scattered blackness and the Truth. “I do plan to marry, and soon.”

“Then please do not expect me to _rejoice_ that our love -- if it has been that -- has helped you to decide you are ready to bring a bride to Blackstag, to marry another, someone appropriate, from _your_ world, closer to your own age probably and with their own fortune, with manners and knowledge to compliment yours, I...I cannot give you that joy.”

“Will Graham,” Hannibal breathed, flustered. “What is it you would ask of me, then? Would you leave this place when I bring my bride home?”

“Yes! God -- I would leave _before_ they set one toe upon the grounds, I would _run_. You will offer me a reference, I hope?”

Will’s voice was ragged, his eyes streaming tears as he trembled. Hannibal’s serious expression reflected new determination. 

“Yes, I will write you a shining recommendation to your next employer. Perhaps you would be interested in a position with a family I know of in Ireland. They have three young children and have never found a satisfactory tutor.”

“It may as well be Ireland,” Will retorted bitterly. 

He could picture himself embarking to a new country, excommunicated from his former dreams of staying here forever. A new household meant a return to how a teacher was usually treated, with scorn for his low status, hassled by ill-behaved and spoiled children, coldly uncared for by the adults. Would he even be allowed to take Winston with him, or would his employers in Ireland insist he come entirely alone?

“I have a strange sensation sometimes, with regard to you, Will.” Hannibal’s voice broke through the haze of Will’s thoughts like forbidden sunlight. “As if there were a red string tied around my heart, connected to a similar knot beneath your ribs. If you go to Ireland, I’ve a fearful premonition that cord of connection between us will snap, and I shall be left bleeding internally.”

“What choice do I have?” Will demanded, his ears ringing, his heart pounding in baffled, overflowing awe and wistfulness, a matching premonition towards the pain of impending separation. “I cannot stay here and see you happily wed to another, see you every day and never touch you, lose our nights together alone and all that we shared. I have to let it all go.”

“But won’t you be sad to leave this place?” Hannibal entreated -- for goodness sake why must he pour salt in Will’s wounds with these useless sentiments? 

“You know I will be! How can you ask? Here, for the first time in my life I have been appreciated. I have been respected and tasted true, if impermanent happiness! I love Abigail, I care for Jimmy and Brian, Miss Bloom, appreciate their honest regard -- I love _you_ , sir, more than anything in the world! Do you think me heartless, that I could hold such feelings and simply banish them when it, and _I_ no longer convenience you? Perhaps even with your capacity for affection towards me, you have been raised enough in a higher realm to think -- because I am poor and plain I can manage such disappointments easier -- that I have less of a soul?”

“Will,” Hannibal began, astonished.

“ _Hannibal._ Let me inform you I have a heart as much as you do, and full as much soul.”

“Will, you aren’t listening, you hear your own song of self-imposed misery.” He reached out but Will batted his hands away, almost choking by now on sobs. 

Hannibal persisted, “Stop struggling so, little bird -- wild and frantic, tearing at your own feathers, hurting yourself rather than hearing what it is I wish to tell you, what I have _longed_ to say since our first meetings, but feared to bring forth in misunderstanding of your wishes. Will, please--”

Will had turned away and tried to walk faster in the opposite direction; Hannibal placed a hand gently on his shoulder. His warm touch weakened Will’s resolve and the teacher halted, turned, melted his sullen blue gaze upon the master’s golden-brown one. 

The younger man swallowed and nodded. “You may as well finish what you have to say.”

“Still you do not see,” Hannibal uttered softly, clasping Will’s face, stroking the tear-cooled pale flesh. “Even as I stand here adoring you, wanting to keep you with me always, you refuse to believe it is possible. Stubborn, impossible boy. I have never doubted you were my equal; how could I, when you are the first person I have ever met who I considered in this light?”

“And so?” Will leaned into Hannibal’s touch, but he hesitated to accept where the master’s words seemed to be leading. He could not bear the disappointment if he was wrong.

“And so I love you, devotedly, you to exclusion of all else. You, my Will, you strange, unearthly thing -- you bewitch me quite.” Hannibal smiled, tears brimming his eyes, emotion rumbling in his deep voice. “Would you take my hand, my life, my ring -- my name? Marry me, Will?”

“You are serious?” Will stared at him, wavering slightly in the abundance of shock, the sudden jolt from the depths of despair to perfect bliss. 

“I have wanted you to be my husband since we met, my darling. I have been cowardly, afraid to risk telling you of my wishes because I doubted your reciprocation -- all those times you mentioned your dislike of matrimony, your love of independence…”

“Oh, I only meant that I was _resigned_ to never marrying, due to my position in the world, as teachers seldom do wed.” Will laughed, crying from happiness now, kissing Hannibal’s matching tears from his cheeks. 

“So you will marry me then, my beautiful love?” Hannibal pleaded, and Will nodded emphatically.

“Yes, I will marry you, Hannibal. I am yours. I love you, love you...” Will whispered, and was kissed, his lips captured in the softest, tenderest ardor, the two of them quivering against each other with thundering heartbeats.

Then they remained locked in an embrace for some time, Will’s head on Hannibal’s chest, the master’s strong arms wrapped around him, fingers stroking through dark curls, sighs of contentment shared with only the waning crescent moon as witness, a fragile sliver of light upon the scene of lovers reunited at last in mutual understanding. 

“Let all else be damned,” Hannibal muttered, to whom Will could not comprehend. “I shall have him. No one will interfere.”

“There is no one to object, sir. I have no family of such consequence…”

“Yes, that is the best of it. And whether or not there is atonement in my cherishing of you, Will, whether or not it can balance the scales I’ve set with my selfishness and sins, I cannot bring myself to care. I am still greedy, I will have what is mine, keep you forever.”

“Yes,” Will said dizzily, not fully understanding, but not caring that he didn’t. He would let Hannibal reveal himself in his own time; now they were bound for life, why should he feel the need to hurry anything at all? Only this, he hastened to: more kisses, deep and hard now, his back pushed to the side of the house as the master gasped and groped his sensitive body. Their tongues tangled with vivid ecstasy, hot and slick, then they pressed impatiently together to feel the mutual, tantalizing hardness of clothed cocks. 

“Yes, I am yours forever; nothing can part us now, and -- I _need_ you,” Will murmured, deliriously trapped in a whirlwind of fierce lust, “I need you now.”

“Then come with me, my angel, my fiance, sweetheart, love.” Hannibal took his hand and they went back inside together, stealing kisses in the hall and rushing to the master’s bedroom, where they could properly celebrate their engagement through the rest of the night, till dawn found them exhausted and still aching for more of each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: copious _celebration_ , and of course more drama as Hannibal's well-kept secrets are dragged into the light of day. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed! ✨✨✨


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is almost entirely smut and fluff, along with some continued mystery building. Hope you enjoy! ❤️

The weeks that followed would be forever preserved in Will’s recollection as some of the most blissful he had ever passed. The days seemed in his mind’s eye like rose petals scattered and floating down into the pages of his memory, warm with love, hot with lust, free from all sense of restraint, self-doubt or worry. 

Roses would always make him remember the night when he planned to wait in Hannibal’s room until his fiance returned from an evening business errand. Smirking naughtily, Will slipped into the blush pink, feather light negligee which Hannibal had recently given him, the one that bared his shoulders and encircled his chest and thighs with lush white lace. He dotted his neck with honeysuckle perfume and nestled down in the large bed which had survived the fire and all the many nights when their passionate fervor had nearly broken the strong, expensive framework. 

Given Will’s current state of mind, replete with lustful mischief, he had no great confidence in the longevity of this particular item of furniture. He giggled at the thought of it and what was certainly to be the result of Hannibal coming back home to find him waiting in such attire, but then the master was out so very late. Will yawned, flipped restlessly through the pages of the books on the side table, flirted with the idea of masturbating to relieve his impatient desire. But he knew how much better their night of passion would taste if he kept his hands off himself for the time being.

Keeping his hands _to_ himself when his handsome, irresistible fiance was present had become remarkably difficult ever since their engagement became known, and since the ruby garnet golden ring had been placed upon his long, slender finger, marking him as Hannibal’s intended. Now that they had no reason to hide their affection from the world, the couple had been shameless in indulging small, teasing touches in the presence of other household members, notorious for suddenly locking doors and disappearing for hours at a time when they were both free from their duties. They were getting awfully absent-minded, barely keeping to their correct schedules since every time their eyes met, the powerful desire to join in feral rapture would take them over.

Will stretched, yawned again, and rubbed his foot down his calf as he remembered with another soft laugh their tryst in the library yesterday afternoon, when Hannibal had brought him into the room under the premise of “lending him a book.” Although Will had never dreamed he might one day be hoisted up by the hips and fucked hard against a bookshelf, his hands clinging desperately to the shelf above while various books fell to the floor with the force of his lover’s thrusting -- he had immediately determined, among countless breathy moans, that it was one of his favorite new pastimes. 

He knew by now exactly how to tease and otherwise push Hannibal into dominating fury, and thrived on playing upon his fiance’s moods. Hence he joked while Hannibal drove into him with animalistic grunts, “This is --- really quite a _novel_ \-- way to spend a rainy afternoon -- ohh, _God,_ Hannibal, I--”

Will had gotten just what he bargained for with the ridiculous pun, which was that Hannibal growled in equally playful annoyance and thrust even harder with his slickly engorged cock, so deep that the teacher yelped and held on tighter with his shaking legs around Hannibal’s torso, his fingers slippery with sweat on the shelf. Hannibal groaned in pleasure as his orgasm neared and Will’s hands fell from the shelf to his lover’s shoulders while their lips met with chaotic, sloppy passion. Hannibal squeezed Will’s ass and groped him with a big, rough hand, protectively cupping the back of Will's bad shoulder with the other. The hot slide of his tongue against the teacher’s, the rough slams of his hips, the long, deep hard rocking in and out of his thick, powerful cock in the tight clutch of Will’s body, culminated -- Will came so hard his vision blurred and Hannibal gasped against his lips as he emptied into the younger man with rhythmless, depraved thrusts. Afterwards, they clung together moaning for an indeterminable period of time, their clothing ripped asunder, bodies caked in sweat and release, breaths trembling with wonderment. 

He wanted more of that tonight, but a long day of riding out across the moors, him astride Shadow whilst Hannibal rode beside him on Midnight, the two of them stealing infatuated looks before challenging each other to saucy races that inevitably ended in tumbling over each other’s bodies upon the moor and kissing so long their lips were crimson with swelling -- well, it had quite tired him out.

His eyelids drifted downwards without his realizing he was falling asleep until he wakened later to the feeling of soft, warm breath tickling his lips. Will knew Hannibal had returned; still drowsy and thoroughly mischievous, he kept his eyes closed, long lashes barely fluttering in response to the hand which slid beneath the gauzy fabric of his negligee as the master leaned in to scent his neck and loosed a heady sigh.

Will bit his lip and blushed as the master’s large, knowing hand caressed his smooth chest, his thumb drily circling one nipple which immediately hardened under his command, as much as Will’s cock grew firm and needy, the head poking against petal-soft fabric. 

“Each time I convince myself you could not possibly look more beautiful, you surpass my every dream,” Hannibal murmured, teasingly stroking the flat of Will’s stomach, then the curves of his thighs, the back of his knuckles gently, barely caressing his thickening cock until the younger man moaned louder, hips arching of their own volition.

“I love coming home to find you in my bed, thus, dressed in what I have chosen and wearing my ring,” Hannibal went on, his voice thick with emotion and need. “I have brought you something, my dear, if you can fully rouse yourself.” There, a small hint of amusement at Will’s games made the younger man hear the fond smile in his voice.

“Hmm, I suppose that might be worth waking up for.” Will smiled and stretched, dipping a hand into his curls to ruffle them as his eyes fully opened and he saw Hannibal sitting beside him in the most stunning dark blue suit, silky silvering hair tied back in a matching velvet ribbon, an enormous bouquet of pink, fresh English roses in his lap.

“Ohhh, Hannibal, you should not have…” Will sighed, sitting up but maintaining a lazily open posture, completely relaxed in his fiance’s presence, in his bed. 

Hannibal smirked and removed one rose from the bunch. He set the rest aside on the dresser and came back to caress Will’s cheek with one silky flowerhead. 

“You know very well I never go to town without bringing you back a gift, and I never shall neglect that ritual. My husband will be dreadfully spoiled, I am afraid.”

Will pouted, blushing deeper under the master’s attentions. “That is terrible -- you will make him so arrogant and lazy. How can you nurture such plans?”

Hannibal grinned at his teasing wiles, but grew more serious a moment later as he continued gazing at Will, so scantily clad and aroused, his eyes gone from sleepy to brightly anticipatory. 

“Look at you,” he said gruffly. After a moment’s further thought, he added, “Lick your lips for me, slowly.”

Never hesitant to obey, Will wetted his lips, sighing in overly sensitive desire for kisses, to have his body taken and wrecked once again by the man he loved. 

“You are a perfect English rose, Will. You blossom, so soft and sweet, more layers of petals to your beauty than I can count. The _scent_ of you, lying there so close and wanting me, growing harder under your naughty little underthings...you intoxicate me.”

Will could summon no clever reply, nor an insecure denial of the adoration he was offered. Instead, he surrendered by lying back and spreading his legs, moaning, “Hannibal, please…”

“Yes. You know you may have anything at all you want in this world, myself included.” Hannibal kissed both of his cheeks and then granted him one full, open-mouthed kiss before he drew back with the sort of admirable yet highly frustrating restraint which never failed to make Will pant and beg.

“But I want to take my time with you this evening. You are too beautiful already, but I’m of a mind to take you to new extremes, dismantle you with pleasure until you forget your own name. Would you enjoy that, sweetheart?”

“Y-yes,” Will gasped, mystified by the dangerous intensity of Hannibal’s words, the master’s golden eyes fastening to his fiance’s desperate expression with quiet, equally ardent need. 

“Place your lovely hands above your head, my dear.” The rumbling heat in Hannibal’s voice was pure sin; it made Will’s cock nudge harder against his filmy attire as he did whatever he was told, completely trusting.

His brow knitted when Hannibal slipped the tie from under his own collar, then used it to bind Will’s wrists together. “Would you like to try this, or would you prefer not to?”

“I would like to try this,” Will blurted, enamored by every new shade of dark intent in Hannibal’s smile. 

“Hmm.” Hannibal traced Will’s face again with the rose, then dragged the blossom slowly down the younger man’s aching body which strained into and against his every movement, begging for friction. “So gorgeous. I have only just begun, and already it is as though the smallest touch might shatter you. You will have to learn patience, my love.”

“Hnnhh--!” Will’s hips bucked as Hannibal brought the rose to his erection and stroked the hard line of his cock over the negligee, silky petals providing insubstantial pressure. His legs shot up, attempted to encircle Hannibal to pull him down for the purpose of fulfilling this greedy want, but Hannibal stilled his rebellion with a stern look tempered by a tiny smile.

“We can’t have that, Will. Do you need me to tie your ankles as well? It would appear that you cannot control yourself.”

“Please,” Will begged, “Yes.”

Soon his ankles were tied together by a silk scarf and Hannibal resumed teasing him, making matters so much harder to bear when he stripped himself naked and crawled over Will’s body. The younger man was frantic to touch him but kept his quivering fingers suspended over his head.

“I can try and stay still, but I can’t be quiet,” Will warned him, and Hannibal smiled, so entirely wicked, cupping his face and roughly tracing his lips before sinking his thumb inside. 

As the teacher eagerly fellated him, Hannibal muttered, “Leave it to me, dearest. I believe I can help you to keep quiet for a little while.”

Will opened his mouth and pleaded this time with his big blue eyes until Hannibal teased his lips with the head of his cock. 

“Is this what you want, Will?”

Will lifted his head, insistently licked the arousal beading the tip of Hannibal’s cock, and sucked at every inch of hard, hot flesh he could reach. He had made his point; Hannibal groaned in bliss, grabbed a handful of soft brown curls, and drove deep, hard into the tight wet warmth of Will’s mouth. 

By now Will had learned with great commitment and growing pride how to take every inch of Hannibal while saliva dripped from the corners of his swollen lips and tears stung his eyes. More than that, he knew the ways in which Hannibal liked to be licked and sucked, and he devoted himself to this with wanton indulgence, never happier than when making his fiance roughly unhinged with excessive pleasure. 

He reached the point of full delirium, as usual, when Hannibal’s cock touched the back of his throat and he let out a blissful choking sound, only compelling his fiance to fuck more roughly and insistently into the tight channel of his throat. The pain was nothing compared to the thrill of bringing Hannibal to this point of intolerable, panting pleasure -- the feverish grunts which escaped the master’s lips filled Will with more pride and fascination, the taste of his lover was naughty -- salty, manly, slick, every sin he had learned to savor rather than fear. But the pain was part of the thrill, too, to experiment and learn he could take more, go farther each time, make Hannibal more unhinged, making himself harder in the process, his own cock bulging, weeping, the need flying heedlessly past the place where it was uncomfortable to excruciating and therefore exhilarating in equal measure. 

Will was red-faced and dazed when Hannibal drew himself from his mouth with a loud, wet popping sound, without finishing -- and the master spread Will’s lips slowly, breathing hard, cinnamon eyes large and disbelieving once again. “Your _mouth_...”

“Mmm, do you torment yourself as well as me, sir?” Will batted his eyelashes with a sweet smile, his scarlet lips wet with the preliminary essence of Hannibal’s desire and plentiful saliva. Surely the master must know Will would be perfectly happy to have him come down his throat or all over his tongue, or best yet perhaps on his face, but he held back, extending the suspenseful arousal for them both.

“I think that is only fair,” Hannibal replied, his own voice nearly as raspy from lust as Will’s throat was raw from greedy overuse. 

Hannibal kissed him then, slow and teasing at first as he traced the lines of Will’s figure through his negligee, always stopping before he gave enough pressure to satisfy, so pleased with Will’s moans and begging that it was obvious he did not really mind his fiance’s generous vocalizations, but rather lived for every gritted-out or softly whined mention of his name, and “please, sir, _fuck me_ , I need you so much…”

There had been so many days and nights of them longing for this without being able to touch or taste each other that every one of these pleas seemed to ignite fresh, almost surprised excitement for Hannibal. Will saw it in his face when he paused between kisses to stare at him and stroke his brunette curls in a brief moment of tender vulnerability. Hannibal could still hardly believe he was real, or that he really loved him. Will could not quite fathom why, could only summon the neverending urge to demonstrate his affection to such extremes, to use the master’s vocabulary, that it could never be doubted again. 

Neither of them had ever truly expected to find their soulmate or marry; neither of them intended to waste a single moment of this voluptuous, spine-tingling union of their tense, needy bodies, fitted together every time to completion, perfection, always still longing for more, harder, deeper, forever.

Will smiled, leaned up to kiss the master’s cheeks with an almost chaste, quite bashful comforting gesture, intimidated as one would be by staring into the sun, to feel the full power of his lover’s obsessive emotion fixated on him.

“Oh, Will,” Hannibal sighed, cupping his face and kissing him deeper, finally going beyond small, cruel little pecks and teases to dip his tongue into Will’s mouth and groan when Will responded with equal fervor. Hannibal pressed Will’s bound wrists hard to the bed, ground his immense erection into Will’s soft thigh with a passionate rhythm, pressed his tongue so far into Will’s mouth it was much too much, artless as a school boy teaching himself to kiss, desperate as a man who thought each kiss might be the last. He sucked Will’s bottom lip, released it at length to kiss hungrily his pale, long neck, deliberately biting at fading bruises to make them shine and ache again, decorating Will’s skin in his own possessive design.

Will fidgeted against the restraints, which did not hurt him but did not budge either in preventing his reciprocation of Hannibal’s more aggressive groping, kissing and biting down the length of his trembling, sensitive body through gauzy pink fabric and lace ruffle. Hannibal lapped at his nipples, soaking the negligee, then bit each as Will whimpered and cried, always particularly weak to this attention. He had learned how to try and hold back his orgasms, which often would occur at the slightest touch of Hannibal’s hand or mouth in just the right place; the master knew he was very susceptible to pleasure, that touch starvation and the sexual drive of a young, comparatively inexperienced man made him prone to a quick climax. He knew exactly how to make Will a mess for him, but Will always smiled between every moan and cry, to know the feeling was mutual, to feel it in every sweep of his fiance’s tongue, every fleck of it over his goosebumped flesh, every nip of sharp teeth demanding _mine, mine, mine._

By the time Hannibal rolled him over and placed him with elbows on the bed and his ass pivoted up for the taking, they were both undone with desire, and on a growl he ripped the back of the negligee open to expose Will’s bottom, then groped him roughly, rocking his hips forward to slick his erection against the younger man’s entrance. 

“You’ve ruined my pretty negligee,” Will pouted, so desperate to be fucked that his fingers dug into the sheets and twisted them, wrists still writhing against the necktie to no avail. Even in such a moment of happy anticipation, he could not miss a chance to see what would come of his teasing.

“I’ll buy you another,” Hannibal grunted, lavishing lubricant on Will’s entrance and opening him with as much patience as he had left, one big finger sinking in and out with careful but insistent pressure.

 _Finally_ Will had what he had needed all along, and he repeated further entreaties until Hannibal was convinced he had done enough to prepare him, had made them both wait long enough, although probably not nearly as long as he had originally intended.

When Hannibal pressed into him, it was with a gasp of joy, then a hesitation which nearly pulled Will’s remaining sanity to bits. He needed _all_ of the master, now, but Hannibal had a habit of becoming enraptured by the sight of Will’s tight entrance slowly giving way, the rim stretching to accommodate his girthy, rigid cock. Will knew the potential consequences if he should hurry the master up, and indeed this knowledge played a role in his reckless decision to interrupt Hannibal’s chosen method and arch into what had been intended as a very gradual thrusting inward. Devastatingly aroused, slick with lubricant, his body now well used to taking his lover’s cock, Will took every inch with a few mischievous but demanding backward movements.

“You naughty, naughty boy,” Hannibal snarled, spanking him until Will’s tender flesh ached and sang with bliss, fucking him hard with both hands digging into his hips. The wet, sweat-slicked slapping together of their bodies made Will cry out multiple obscenities as Hannibal’s cock shoved directly to his prostate on every harsh, claiming drive forward. 

“Your -- naughty -- boy,” Will panted, weeping and grinning, delightedly defenseless to Hannibal’s every whim. 

“Yes.” Hannibal reached beneath Will and wrapped a hand around the boy’s cock, stroking in time with his quickening thrusts. “My naughty boy, and the most beautiful one in the world, my angel, my only desire. Mylimasis, you consume me.”

The intertwining sensations of his prostate being pummeled with shockwaves of pleasure while his cock responded instantly to the master’s expert touch made Will almost faint; he held onto consciousness by the barest thread as his orgasm swept over him from his groin and his ass outward, pleasure swarming through his body in such an unstoppable tumult that it was impossible to tell which form of stimulation had finally caused the tipping point, and he was too far from all sensible thought to much care.

Hannibal flipped Will over again, gazing down at his boy who still obediently held his bound wrists over his head and let his knees press together to one side as his toes remained curled, his pupils enormously dilated with rapture. And as the master stroked himself until he came in long, sticky trails of white all over Will’s chest and stomach, he moaned in renewed shock at Will’s influence upon him.

Will knew no one else ever saw him like this, dripping with sweat, eyes blazing with fear at the intensity of his pleasured body and heartfelt emotion too dependent on another person for the first time in decades. His hair like bronze silk framing his regal features with every defense ripped away from his eyes. How blessed Will felt he was, to find such love, to have the power to make his lover so happy simply by being himself and honestly sharing his devotion.

***

“It was very good of you to let my cousin stay here,” Will remarked about an hour later. Hannibal had spent at least thirty of those minutes in caring for Will, untying his wrists and ankles, kissing them excessively, rubbing salve on the places he had bitten and strained and spanked. The ointment melted soothingly into Will’s reddened, purpled skin, wafts of eucalyptus emanating from his marked up flesh. 

Afterwards, they lay naked together, Will’s head on Hannibal’s chest as his fingers lazily trailed through his chest hair over hot skin and a steady heartbeat. Silence encapsulated the repose, the silence in which many thousands of words seemed contained, renewed promises of ever-after devotion, a bright, burning need to possess one another and hold tighter.

So that when Will spoke, with such an impromptu rendition of normal domestic conversation, Hannibal chuckled. “Of course I allowed her to stay. You may invite anyone you like, so long as they are not in love with you, of course.”

Will rolled his eyes and laughed. “I am not nearly as irresistible to every passer-by as you imagine.”

Hannibal tickled his belly and insisted, “You most certainly are, you wicked little thing.”

“Stop that,” Will chided, giggling and shoving Hannibal’s hand away. “I’m trying to make a serious statement of gratitude towards you.”

“Very well.” Hannibal composed his features into a semi-believable expression of patient receptiveness. “Proceed, my love.”

“My cousin is an heiress, but money means nothing to her compared with family, compared with the affections provided by a safe and happy home life. Staying here for a while helped Margot to regain a sense of stability. Losing her mother and brother caused her deep grief, despite their despicable natures. It is hard to understand fully how terrible someone is when you love them in spite of it.”

“What is it you consider to be ‘terrible’ in a person’s nature?” Hannibal’s fingers paused in their savoring cascade down Will’s back, and the younger man knew he had somehow struck a nerve in his lover’s strange paranoia Will would one day see the error of his ways in caring for him.

“Well...cruelty, above all,” Will mused, feeling it best to be transparent, “Abuse, deception, unfaithfulness…looking down one’s nose at one’s supposed ‘inferiors,’ allowing others to suffer to bolster one’s own satisfaction in life, one’s sense of superiority. As you will observe, none of this describes you, sir.”

Hannibal fell quiet, resuming his lazy stroking of Will’s back. After another thoughtful moment, he added, “What about deceit?”

“You are secretive, but you do not deny it to me. I trust you, and believe in time I can help you feel comfortable enough to share all of yourself with me, darkness and all. You have heard my worst secrets, and have been brave enough to keep loving me.”

“I don’t consider anything you have confessed to me as remotely terrible.” 

“On that, we shall have to agree to disagree.” Will kissed his chest, still baffled as to how anyone could hear him admit he had derived powerful joy from murder and still adore him, but again, he had been uniquely blessed. 

Perhaps sending Hannibal, allowing them to save each other, was God’s way of saying he forgave Will’s sinful nature. Only time would tell. Would they truly be allowed to keep this love, share it forever? Could such tremendous happiness be held by a mortal life in a flawed, fragile world?

Will went on carefully, “You must realize it would most likely be the same, whenever I learn of your secrets. I would forgive them, I would love you, we would survive it. One day, if you can trust me, you shall see.”

“I hope so.” Hannibal’s voice had gone tight with some overwhelming concern which he dodged away from addressing, choosing instead a change back to the previous subject. “You say your cousin is an heiress; did you receive no compensation after your uncle or aunt’s deaths?”

“One would expect there to be some small consideration for the nephew, but no indeed; Mr. Verger insisted on all funds and estates going directly to his own children, so since Mason is gone, it is all settled on Margot.” Will spoke lightly, as he obviously had no claim to the fortune, and no need for it either under his unexpectedly luxurious new circumstances, being the future husband of Mr. Hannibal Lecter.

“I believe Miss Bloom and Miss Verger have grown quite attached,” Hannibal observed, and Will chuckled in agreement.

“Certainly. I fear we may soon have need of a new maid for Abigail, as Margot is quite likely to steal our current one away from us. Still, I am sure they will often visit us whenever they set up house, which may be anywhere in the world Margot chooses, given the fortune. I know they are both genuinely fond of Abigail and will always be in her life.”

Presently, Alana and Margot were in London, where they had taken Abigail to a performance of the Nutcracker ballet and to stay at a fancy hotel, which had made Abigail transcendently delighted. 

“Where would you go if you could live anywhere in the world?” Hannibal inquired, roving his hand now through Will’s curls, toying with them as had become another favorite habit.

Will hummed like a well-petted puppy and nuzzled deeper against Hannibal’s warm chest. “Well. Do you know the cottage at the end of the lane just before your neatly cultivated estate breaks into the wildness of the moor?”

“The one with all the buttercups and wild purple thyme?” The master asked, surprised. “I use it as a guest lodging for temporary farm hands at present.”

“It’s beautiful,” Will enthused dreamily. “With that wishing well out in front and all those flowers, only now ceding under a dust of snow -- how splendid they will be again in spring, how luscious in summer. What a wistful, simple yet stunning place. How the stone steps lead upwards through the path of flowers, like a gateway to heaven. That lovely little fence --”

“It has seen better days,” Hannibal smiled affectionately at Will’s youthful infatuation with such a comparatively unimpressive house. 

“Then we could fix it all up together. It should be a home; it is a shame for it not to be a home.”

“If you were there, I believe I should have to agree that those steps lead to paradise itself,” Hannibal admitted. “I believe…” he kissed Will’s knuckles slowly. “If you were to ask it, we would probably end in living there permanently, surrounded by a half-dozen more dogs.”

“Do not tempt me.” Will softly bit his lover’s pectoral, occasioning him a swift swat of Hannibal’s hand to his ass.

Although they both laughed, they shared a sense of the seriousness of their dialogue.

Hannibal mused, “Out of every place in the world, you would truly go no farther than a few miles from Blackstag?”

“Of course, sir. I would always choose to go somewhere that is a part of you.”

The words made the master’s breath catch, lit new fire in his eyes. “Marry me, Will. Tomorrow -- tomorrow morning.”

Will stared up at him in astonishment. “So soon as that? And before the ladies return from London--”

“They will not mind, I am sure,” Hannibal insisted, turning Will in his arms so that the younger man lay beneath him again. 

He began kissing obsessively, first Will’s shoulder blades, so gently, his biceps and forearms, his chest, then his lips again. Will squirmed pleasurably and giggled in surprised delight at this resumed vigor.

“Marry me,” Hannibal repeated, “I cannot stand waiting another day for you to be entirely mine. We can have another ceremony when they come home, I don’t care--”

“Impossible, impetuous, stubborn man,” Will laughed, hugging his lover and kissing his mouth in return, “You know I cannot resist; I was never made to resist you. We shall be married in the morning, then.”

“My darling,” Hannibal kissed his ear, his throat, and Will sighed, delving his fingers languorously through his fiance’s long hair. 

“That is if you intend to allow me a few hours sleep tonight,” Will teased, already moaning anew as Hannibal’s mouth wandered lower, then lower…

“Yes, of course, sweet boy, for I intend to render you thoroughly exhausted...isn’t it kind of me, Will?”

“Certainly, nearly charitable. You saint --” Will huffed a laugh that quickly morphed into a near-wail of pleasure when Hannibal began to suck him; he was oversensitive still, and the feeling shook the walls of his world, occasioning him a swift surrender of all further dialogue -- and a clear admission that he would once again plummet to slumber through an overabundance of erotic delectation. 

_We’re to be married tomorrow._ He swept his hands through Hannibal’s hair, guided his lover’s bobbing motion with quickening thrusts of his hips, alive to his power and beauty in such moments if seldom touching this confidence elsewhere. _Married,_ the rhythmic, euphoric certainty, the security of their future emboldened him, rang through his ears like crystallizing music, as Hannibal’s lips wrapped around his aching cock and his fiance took him in deep, _My husband loves me so much, My Husband, Mine -- I am his --_

***

Of course, Hannibal’s scheme of marrying in the morning had been absurdly impractical. Just after daybreak, the master was in town, doubtless pleading with the local vicar to marry them this afternoon or evening, and making plentiful orders of food and drink for the night’s festivities. There were few of them at Blackstag, but everyone would celebrate to the highest standard of Hannibal’s meticulously curated taste.

Will remained behind to arrange matters with the staff, had already spoken to Jimmy regarding the feast, the recipes involved and the linens, the silverware which would best suit. He had developed very quickly a sense about these aspects of home life which Hannibal said spoke to his quick intellect and natural good taste (this had, of course, been followed by an indication of whom else personified this good taste and how they should very much like to be _tasted_ often). 

While he was a simple country boy who appreciated the rustic, Will could enjoy the finer side of life too, could savor the aesthetic pleasures. The richly bridal effect of a gorgeous lace table linen, the wreaths of fresh flowers round the candlesticks, the beautiful sight which the bubbly champagne would make when poured into their very best crystal glasses, the ones with real diamonds embedded in their engraved design of stars and floral garlands -- none of this was above or beyond Will’s interest. It was his wedding day; he knew what he liked and what Hannibal preferred; moreover, these matters now fell directly to his duties as soon-to-be husband to the master.

So he was disappointed, if not surprised, that Jimmy had learned of their plan to wed this very day with a typical hesitance to express joy. 

“ _Married_?” Jimmy repeated incredulously when Will informed him of the plan. 

“Yes, Married,” Will repeated impatiently as they sat over coffee, eggs, fruit and toast, Jimmy crumbling his toast into bits in some strange fit of nerves. “That was our general intention in becoming engaged.”

“Of course it was, but -- thunderstruck as I was to hear of the engagement, I little expected such a short one. Given everything--”

Will’s strained tolerance for Jimmy’s disapproval finally snapped. He had borne it silently for weeks though it offended him -- the expression of discomfort and smothered words of warning which crossed Jimmy’s face when the engagement was told him, and then whenever Hannibal took his leave of Will with overly long, indulgent kisses, not ceasing the habit after every meal, despite the servants being present. Will could _feel_ Jimmy seething in dislike for their union.

“Yes, given everything,” he fumed, “You assumed the master would wish to give himself more time to come to his senses before marrying someone who is practically a pauper?”

“Perhaps I assumed there would be enough time for _you_ to come to your senses,” Jimmy suggested with a pained look.

“Oh, and remember my place, is that it? I thought that you and I were friends, but I was clearly mistaken; as you said upon my arrival, the lines between the classes must be preserved. You and I do not belong to the same class; we are simultaneously considered above and below one another. Certainly you believe yourself above me in wisdom, qualified to offer unsolicited advice regarding my choice in husband -- you do not wish to see me as the new, second master of Blackstag, that is clear!”

“Will, please do not misunderstand me so completely,” Jimmy pleaded. “I am not so scandalized by the notion of the tutor rising to become master of the house and my superior; I am worried about you. You, who are young, innocent and naive, you know so little of the master’s past and his secrets--”

“Oh, but you are an expert on them, I suppose, and qualified to offer me more specific warnings of my impending doom?” Will raised his eyebrows and drummed his fingers on the table.

“I can offer you no such examples without going back on my word to remain silent. But Will --”

“If you are not scandalized by the tutor marrying the master, by the concept of marriage between classes, by the idea that love is larger and far more important than the petty masquerade that we call English Society, perhaps you would have the good grace to answer me one highly pertinent question?” Will stood, picked up his hat, waited briefly for Jimmy to nod in assent.

“Why, then, have you never proposed to Brian?” With that, Will turned on his heel and strode off, trusting that despite their argument, Jimmy was still capable of using the detailed list of required accommodations for the evening, which Will had left upon his hands.

***

The wedding day proved to be a windy one, whipping up the grass of the moors, howling past the doors and windows of Blackstag with an ominous rattling. Will encountered Miss Chiyoh while he was helping the servants to run about double-bolting the windows. She passed quietly through the sitting room with her hands neatly clasped around a small stack of books. 

“Are those the Matthew Arnold volumes?” Will inquired curiously, stepping down from the chair he had stood on to adjust the window bolts. 

Chiyoh was sliding the books back into their proper spaces on the shelves by the tea table. Every common room in the house possessed its own impressive collection of books, arranged by genre, and like himself she obviously kept a careful memory of where to find each.

“Yes. ‘Dover Beach’ was my favorite. The intermingling of melancholy fear for the future with present bliss is quite striking. The best poetry is emotionally transporting, I believe.”

“I could not agree more,” Will nodded. “Today the wind sounds almost like those waves which Arnold described. _‘Listen! you hear the grating roar / Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling'_ …”

Chiyoh straightened from her task and stood as she always did, exactly on the cusp of leaving the room again at any given moment. The deep maroon walking dress she wore emphasized her elegant, dainty beauty, and the strength powerfully illuminating her demeanor without her having to say a word in demonstration of it. With her raven tresses, long, dark lashes and wide, striking eyes, she could have dazzled the finest drawing rooms in England, free as she was -- the heiress along with her adoptive brother to the Lecter fortune, but she chose to live here, in seclusion. Some part of the explanation appeared to reside in an introversion to which Will could relate; the rest might be explained in a charitable disposition to care for those less fortunate, such as her patient. But there was some vital piece missing to Will’s understanding of this clever, kind young woman which connected to the master’s own mystery.

“And will you allow this inhospitable weather to postpone your plans to marry Hannibal today?” For the first time, Will observed in Chiyoh’s quick-thinking aspect a curiosity towards him to mirror his own regarding her and all the unsolved questions of Blackstag.

“Certainly not,” Will grinned. “If we have to run to the carriage, abandon it halfway there in a mud puddle and fly through the moors to church on a wing and prayer, soaking wet and ridiculous, we will arrive on time and exchange our vows.”

“You look well,” Chiyoh nodded, considering carefully. “Happy. I wish you both great joy.”

“Won’t you come along as witness?” Will invited impulsively. “Brian has already agreed to attend, but it would be nice to have family there. I know it isn’t the most appealing prospect to brave this storm…”

“I must remain here with my patient today.” Chiyoh resumed examining the low bookshelf, removing a few new volumes to replace the ones she had put back. 

“Are you well, Miss Chiyoh? And happy?” Will’s brow furrowed in concern.

“In my way, yes.” She folded her arms across her chest, hugging the books, a gesture of momentary self-reflection and resulting vulnerability. “You mistake me if you believe I stay here out of some sort of self-imposed imprisonment or penance.”

“I admit the thought had crossed my mind. You are so devoted to your patient, we hardly ever see you. And your companion seems dangerous...I do worry for your safety.”

“You need not,” she smiled with an endearing, wicked twinkle in her eyes that reminded him of Hannibal. “I am more than a match for any peril I may encounter.”

“Hannibal has told me you are a formidable huntswoman.”

“Perhaps there is no better training for a nurse to a difficult charge,” Chiyoh suggested. “Do you understand how Hannibal feels about this house? About the past?”

“He blames himself for what happened to his parents and sister,” Will said slowly, pensively. It always occasioned him a heavy twinge of pain to imagine that awful burden on his lover’s heart. “This is a haunted house so far as he is concerned. He comes here out of obligation but never seems wholly at ease within Blackstag’s walls.”

“That is the difference between myself and Hannibal,” Chiyoh clarified. “Where he sees this house as an accusation, I see it as our home. We came here once when Mischa was very little, and spent a summer. Everywhere I look, I see happy memories while he sees and feels only pain. So it is no penance for me to live at Blackstag quietly and in devotion to my chosen vocation. I am content. It is Hannibal who suffers, and he occasions himself the woe with his decisions, his choices which have shaped…” 

Her voice trailed off as Will tried to catch the meaning of her incomplete statement, but without comprehending.

“His choices? What choices have poisoned this house for him? Surely there is something I can do to help.” 

Chiyoh approached a few steps closer with a sad smile. Patting his cheek, she said gently, “You must help yourself, when the time comes, Will Graham. I truly hope you have a wonderful wedding day.”

She drifted out of the room in her own haunting way again, leaving Will with so many more questions than she had answered.

Yet soon after, Hannibal returned with news that all was set to move forward at church, with the vicar awaiting them to commence the ceremony.

Will embraced his fiance joyously and banished all further contemplation of Chiyoh’s strangely incomprehensible references to past and present difficulties. This was to be a day of perfect happiness; like all couples, he and Hannibal would have their conflicts and confusions, but they could all wait.

***

“Don’t you both look dashing!” Brian extolled as the couple emerged in the front hall wearing their very finest apparel. Hannibal wore a deep red waistcoat and black cravat, while Will's vest and tie were ivory under a similar black suit. “Don’t they look dashing, Jimmy?” 

“They do indeed,” Jimmy smiled, looking, if Will understood correctly, quite penitent of their earlier dispute. “Weddings never fail to make me cry.”

“We thank you for your well-wishes,” Hannibal nodded, nearly pulling Will with him out of the front door in his haste to get to the altar. He was happy, yes, but distracted by some odd worry, as if expecting someone to come along and prevent them from marrying.

“Will,” Jimmy added, taking him aside as Hannibal huffed in annoyance at the delay. “I wanted to apologize to you for…”

“Oh, please do not feel you must,” Will assured him. “I regret losing my temper and being so hard on you. I’m sure you only want the best for us all.”

“I do, and while you misunderstood my motives, you were right that I have let outside judgement dictate my own choices for far too long. I proposed to Brian an hour ago, and he has accepted. Perhaps I should have felt shamed by your words, and perhaps I was, a little. But mainly, you inspired me, enlivened me to take a good look at what I truly wanted. For that, I thank you, Will.”

Jimmy’s green eyes sparkled and Will glanced at Brian, who was across the room attempting to entertain Hannibal with a speech about the vicar’s most amusingly tedious sermons, a tangent which received a chilly reception from the master. 

Brian did look absolutely delighted with life, above and beyond being happy for today’s impending marriage. 

“I am so very happy for you both,” Will assured him warmly with a clap to Jimmy’s arm. 

And then the time had come. With a deep breath and a lump in his throat, Will accepted Hannibal’s outstretched hand. The servants opened the great front doors of Blackstag and the couple dashed from them through the rain, the grey mist and gloom towards their waiting carriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Will's lingerie and pose at the beginning of the chapter, I was inspired by this painting: https://www.bonhams.com/auctions/23944/lot/100/
> 
> Next time: The wedding! Then the truth and all its consequences...


End file.
